


fool(ish)

by aijee



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe – College/University, Childhood Friends, Food & Alcohol, M/M, Mingyu’s Eternal Struggle with Coherent Speech, Pining, Slow Burn, Wonwoo has the Patience of a Saint (until he doesn’t), big dumbass energy, for the sake of food journalism, sickfic? mistletoe? jealousy? watching sunrises together? we've got it all folks, ”not-dates”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-08-13 04:10:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 58,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20167927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aijee/pseuds/aijee
Summary: The last time Mingyu saw Jeon Wonwoo,theJeon Wonwoo with the sleek fox eyes and endless abyss stares and nose scrunches that'd only show up when (1) the planets aligned or (2) Joshua fucking eviscerates Hansol in Battleship and it’s the funniest thing you'll ever see—thatJeon Wonwoo—was seven years ago.AKA the "knew each other as kids but then reunited almost a decade later and the first thing one of them thinks is 'oh god they were cute before but nowthey're hot'"AU





	1. barbecue & cherry vodka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate summary: Mingyu is a pining, lovestruck disaster and that makes for great entertainment.
> 
> Some clarifications/forewarnings:  
• SeokMingyu both went to the military after high school while everyone else hasn't, hence they're freshmen while many others are upperclassmen.  
• Adult themes and language are ahead. Everyone is an adult (and, in this case, in college), so there's no point in infantilizing them. Let young men be young men!  
• There are some minor pairings and past relationships that I didn't tag for the sake of narrative reveal. MinWon is still endgame, of course—just with a few bumps along the way ;)
> 
> Thank you so much for clicking in! Hope you enjoy!

“Mumps, measles, and puppy love are terrible after twenty.”

Mignon McLaughlin, _The Neurotic’s Notebook_

* * *

The last time Mingyu saw Jeon Wonwoo, _the_ Jeon Wonwoo with the sleek fox eyes and endless abyss stares and nose scrunches that'd only show up when (1) the planets aligned or (2) Joshua fucking eviscerates Hansol in Battleship and it’s the funniest thing you'll ever see—_that_ Jeon Wonwoo—was seven years ago.

“These are for you—"

Spring. Middle school graduation. Wonwoo, at least, has the decency to attempt surprise.

“—I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked, or if you liked them at all, actually—”

He gives Mingyu a look, something that reads along the lines of _You’re so cute_ and _You’re so ridiculous_ at the same time. Wonwoo’s always been good at that, saying things without actually saying them.

“—So if you hate them, it’s fine. I just wanted to—”

“Thank you, Mingyu.”

There it is. Wonwoo’s always had this weird knack for making Mingyu’s name sound as if it was dipped in sugar cane syrup and mulled wine. That might explain the slight dizziness. Mingyu should check his blood sugar soon.

“Thank you,” Wonwoo says again as if one time wasn’t enough. His teeth gleam like porcelain kitchen tiles under the afternoon sun. “Good luck with your studies. Don’t forget to eat well, okay?”

“G-Good luck in Japan,” Mingyu imitates in a significantly less-cool way, “You eat well, too,” and maybe he says that with a wobble to his voice. Maybe he’s about to cry (yeah, no, the tears are out to play) and maybe his heart has been on the brink of bursting ever since Wonwoo announced that he’d be moving away.

Maybe Mingyu has been a little in love with Wonwoo for a while. Maybe it’s too late for that now.

“We’ll see each other again,” Wonwoo says.

And with that, they don’t.

Until they do—many, many years later.

“Hey Mingyu, should we call ourselves ‘bro-oommates’ or ‘bruh-mates’?”

There’s an actual fishbowl with actual living creatures in Seokmin’s hands. It’s making Mingyu nervous.

“Oooh, what about the Spice Bros? It’s perfect. Vicky Becks and I are astrologically compatible.”

Minghao groans over his dining hall leftovers. “There are sounds coming out of your mouth, none of which remotely resemble language.”

“I could—”

“No.”

“Play nice, you two,” Mingyu chides while not-tripping over putting on his shoes. “We’re, what, only a week into the semester? The maiming can wait until first round midterms. Then I’ll be camping at the hipster tea shop two blocks down.”

Minghao perks. “Maiming is approved?”

Seokmin does not. “Over my dead body.”

“That’s the point, you boob.”

“_Gasp_, not in front of the fish!”

“Did you honest to god just verbalize a gasp—”

“The activities fair is going to start soon,” Mingyu interrupts, questioning his life decisions for the dozenth time in the past hour. At least his hair looks good today. “Let’s go, Seok.”

Seokmin holds the fishbowl a little tighter, to which Mingyu raises his brows: _Really?_

Seokmin begrudgingly relents and sets it by the toaster. A bad idea in retrospect, but Mingyu is too desperate to leave Minghao’s apartment to care about a consolation festival prize that’ll last an optimistic three days before The Toilet Flush.

“Don’t forget to visit the food journal club,” Minghao calls behind them. “My friend Jun is tabling and he still owes me from our last bet.”

“Why don’t you go with us?” Seokmin offers.

“My maiming tendencies aren’t in check yet,” is the prim answer that seems to make Seokmin’s life flash before his eyes. That’s a power Mingyu can respect.

“What was the bet about?” Mingyu asks as Seokmin willingly escapes to the outside world for once.

“Oh,” Minghao says, chewing (…crunching?) on some rice. “Nothing important.”

Minghao is a great liar. That’s also something Mingyu can respect.

It doesn’t take long for Mingyu and Seokmin to get sucked into the tentacle arms (it’s not a Freudian slip—honest) of far too many enthusiastic student organizations. Left, right, and all around, Mingyu has to Naruto his way through a sea of amateur sales marketers, Jesus preachers, and non-consensual, K-drama arm grabs. The last one in particular is annoying. He should at least get offered dinner first.

“This girl from some freaky club almost wrecked me in the jewels,” Seokmin grumbles next to a makeshift crepe stand.

“Which freaky club?”

“Accounting. I mean, who willingly joins a club about _accounting_ and _likes it?”_

Mingyu shrugs, dusting off his coat. “Everyone’s got a thing for something.”

“Crazies,” Seokmin hisses like it’s a conspiracy. “Crazies, everywhere.”

“And we’re part of the crowd.”

He doesn’t know if Seokmin is lovingly touching his own butt or searching for his wallet. Probably both.

“Weren’t we supposed to go find this Jun dude?” Mingyu says as Seokmin orders two strawberry crepes before realizing that Mingyu quit sugar recently so _Oops now I’m six thousand won poorer _but_ Yay! More crepes for Seokmin! _And, yes, Seokmin did say that out loud. In third person.

“We’re looking for a food journal club,” Mingyu says, shriveling on the inside because the smell of sugar is like crack and the withdrawal is too real. “I think it’s called Spoon. Or maybe it was The Spoon? Something like that.”

“Pretentious of them to name it that as if their spoon was the highest of all spoons on the spoon social hierarchy,” Seokmin says, double-fisting his crepes with great fervor (also not a Freudian slip, you nasty). “That’s utilitarianism.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Utensil racism?”

“I, that’s not—whatever. Let’s keep looking. I think I see it over there,” Mingyu says as he drags Seokmin by the hoodie hood. Seokmin’s an entire soap opera by nature, so Mingyu figures that the choking sounds are probably just for show.

Compared to what they’ve seen, the table is a humble one from afar. There are a few magazine stacks weighing down an overused vinyl banner decorated with a majestically giant, almost offensively large spoon that’s just like, _HEY YOU we’re a club that’s largely involved with a very specific food implement. Check us out! _It’s a wonder how Mingyu didn’t notice it before.

But he’s too busy wrestling with Seokmin and the guy’s onset of premature diabetes to notice that there isn’t just one person at the table.

“Aaaaand shift’s over. Time to blow this popsicle stand—”

That voice.

“Popsicles? But we’re a food journal? I guess that makes sense, though.”

“I need to teach you more stupid sayings.”

That tone.

“Anyway, gotta scram. Soonyoung’s at the freshman dorms and he says there’s free toilet paper that definitely shouldn’t be raided by broke seniors. Farewell, Huijun—that is your name, right?”

“Whoever called you a lawful neutral doesn’t know the first thing about you.”

A shudder, _the_ shudder, runs through Mingyu’s entire body like he was suddenly struck by non-fatal-but-still-pretty-intense lightning. It’s the same shudder that makes him feel fifteen again in a definitely not literal way, that makes him feel like the entire memory scrapbook of his middle school years just did an Icarus and flew too close to the sun and is now barrel-rolling back down to earth because, hey, gravity’s a thing and has a predilection for contrived metaphors about impending doom.

Mulled wine and sugar syrup. Battleship and awkward flower choices. Kitchen tile teeth beneath golden hour sunlight.

“Is that—”

Mingyu turns his head around so fast he almost gives himself whiplash.

“You look like you’re cutting off your friend’s circulation,” points out the very confused, very single person behind the table who’s…not the person Mingyu wishes he’d be. “Unless this is, like, some weird foreplay for you guys or something. If so, ignore me. _Naega_ foreigner-_desu_.”

“No no no, this is definitely nonconsensual,” Seokmin gets out hoarsely. _Ha, he kind of looks like a horse, too,_ Mingyu thinks for a sad mental humor back-pat. Seokmin frowns. “Also, gross.”

“Yeah, not into choking either.”

“I meant the ungodly koreaweeboo filth that came from your mouth. Choking’s not that bad.”

“…yeah, that’s fair.”

Mingyu relinquishes his figurative chain on Seokmin’s neck. (_Not_ a Freudian—you know what, whatever. Mingyu doesn’t care anymore.)

“Are you Jun?” Mingyu asks the table guy. He tries for Calm Business but ends up with Post-disaster Stressed. “I’m one of Minghao’s friends. Apparently you owe him something?”

“Owe him? If anything, he still owes me for Wine and Whine night—” When Jun looks at Mingyu, like the clouds of heaven parting, comes a moment of regretful epiphany, “Oh. _Oh. _Yeah. Yeah, that thing. The thingy thing that involves the other thing.”

“Exquisite phrasing,” Seokmin says.

“Was someone else here before?” Mingyu asks.

Jun looks at him, blankly. Or maybe that’s just Jun’s face. Minghao sometimes has that same look. (Is that racist?) He uses it whenever Mingyu says something incomprehensible or tremendously stupid.

“Never mind,” Mingyu interrupts before Jun gets a chance to answer. “Anyway, yeah. The Minghao thing. We’re done with that now. See you later, I guess?”

“Oh, wait, while you’re here,” Jun says, pulling out his laptop. On the screen is an application form. “Wanna join The Spoon? You get to eat stuff. And then write about eating stuff.”

“Are you pre-law? Your skills of persuasion are incredible.” Seokmin sounds genuinely impressed. “Whisper more me more sweet nothings, Mr. Grey. Or maybe yellow, since we’re Asian.”

“Okay, so, we basically just fuck around and take photos at restaurants and bars or whatever—”

Mingyu has every intention of politely declining. He has every intention of leaving Seokmin to swoon over Jun’s exquisite pitching skills because Mingyu’s past has somehow come to bite him in the un-gymmed glutes and he’s a helpless dog when the bone, even if just a fragment, has been tossed.

There is something unsaid in Jun’s face that compels Mingyu to stay. Maybe that’s the bone in and of itself.

“I’ll give it a shot,” Mingyu says to Jun, interrupting Seokmin’s tirade about That Fucking Amazing Hotteok Place in Namdae Market. “When’s the first meeting?”

(Mingyu’s the one that brought it up. Wonwoo said it was at Joshua’s fifteenth birthday party.

Wonwoo and Joshua attended the same middle school and hung around the same group of friends. Mingyu’s family was the newest addition to the Hong family’s circle of neighbors. Mingyu’s mother was more than happy to drag little sixth-grader Mingyu, at Mama Hong’s invitation, to Joshua’s sweet fifteen.

Mingyu still has a scan of the group photo saved to his computer: all the middle schoolers haphazardly arranged around the birthday boy, and then there’s Mingyu, present but trying his best not to be, gripping his shorts like they’d disappear if he didn’t turn his knuckles white. Wonwoo is beside him, V-sign held like a prepubescent’s attempt at “being cool.”

There’s a mess of confetti and ripped wrapping paper around them all. Mingyu’s cone hat is severely crooked. Wonwoo has some icing on his cheek.

“It annoyed me so much,” Mingyu grumbled through half-chewed rice cake. He was old enough to be at the same middle school as Wonwoo now. Their favorite hole-in-the-wall tteokbokki place seemed smaller than usual. “God, I wanted to chuck a napkin at your face all night.”

Wonwoo snatched the fish cake before Mingyu could even think about it. “Oh yeah, I remember. Your eyes said exactly that.”

“Eyes don’t speak.”

“Yours do.”

“No way! You couldn’t have known.”

“You’re an open book, dude. You couldn’t lie, even if you wanted to.”

What else can Wonwoo tell, Mingyu wondered.

Did he know that Mingyu hated Wonwoo’s weird obsession with leather bracelets and low-rise socks? That Mingyu thought Wonwoo hung out with Joshua too much but, honestly, Mingyu gets it because Joshua is just so…Joshua? Did Wonwoo know that Mingyu always let him eat the fish cake because they both know it’s Wonwoo’s favorite part?

Mingyu never asked.

Instead, he argued that he and Wonwoo first met earlier than that, on the day Mingyu’s family moved into Seoul.

“Really?” Wonwoo asked in a rare tone of surprise. “Where?”

“Technically, we didn’t actually talk,” Mingyu hastily amended, “And _technically_ you never really looked at me, but—”

Wonwoo laughed, a single solid_ ha!_ that would reverberate in Mingyu’s skull for months.

“It was at the Buy the Way, the one closest to the apartment complex,” Mingyu said, face feeling the late onset of his spicy rice cake. “Dad and I were getting dinner ‘cause the kitchen stuff was delayed another day. You were there, outside, hanging out with some random pigeon.”

A disbelieving snort. An eye-roll. “Impeccable storytelling skills.”

“You were talking to it, like some _bird whisperer_. It was amazing. I was awed. I wanted to talk to you so bad.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Mingyu took a swig of his energy drink. It’s not alcohol, but he felt a little buzzed.

“I don’t know,” he lied.)

**mingupingu  
** wheres the room again  
can u ask jun pls thx

**hao_u_doin**  
humans r an evoultoniary wonder  
we r the at the top of the food chain  
we hav opposable thumb s  
and u cant bring urself to open your expensive a$$ iphone Z or whatev and check ur email

**mingupingu**  
excuse U its an iphone x  
u flip phone pleb

**hao_u_doin  
** ill flip u a phone  
not usin samsung isa national crime right

**mingupingu  
** thats racist  
now were even i guess  
also i accidentally deleted the email  
pls ask ill make u fried rice later

**hao_u_doin  
** make it double, trouble  
wat do u mean “even”

**mingupingu  
** nothing  
and fine

**hao_u_doin**  
ok it’s the hyun samdong fine arts building, wing c, room 510

**mingupingu**  
thank uuuuuuu

**hao_u_doin**  
buckle the fuckle up

**mingupingu**  
wtf does that mean??  
evryone here is so weird

**hao_u_doin  
** its the uni water  
now ur infected too**  
** but not lik ein an std way**  
** hopefully**  
**get checked b4 gettin wrecked ok

**mingupingu**  
pls stop texting me ty

Five minutes into the meeting—and by “meeting” Mingyu means Angry Smol Attempts PG Fear Mongering—is when he restarts scrutinizing his life choices.

“This isn’t a welcome party,” says the shorty with at least three lifetimes of agendas under his eyebags. “There isn’t going to _be_ a welcome party. This is an _initiation_ and you’re all going to work for the right to be here.”

The title slide of the presentation says WELCOME TO THE SPOON JOURNAL CLUB in Comic Sans with a bunch of Gmail emojis. Hopefully for irony.

“Looks like someone is going a little easy on the intros,” Jun quips, amused, from the computer podium that’s too short for his awkward leaning to look anything but awkward. “How unlike you, Jihoon.”

Jihoon flips him off and moves on. “We run a high-class institution, folks, and no one here is going to make our audience firetrucking question that.”

After a little more obligatory scary dialogue and some job descriptions for the upcoming issue, Jihoon runs through a list of rules:

1\. Five minutes early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable and punishable by community stoning (as of 2017, replaced by intense passive aggressiveness).

2\. The Editor-in-Chief is the all-powerful being who always has the final straw in the haystack _always_. And yes, “always” was repeated.

3\. Never, _ever_ forget to—

The door opens and light, like an unintentional but very appropriate metaphor, shines into the room.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” says this scrunchy-eyed, bleach-blond birds’ nest-haired guy who looks like a walking Adidas commercial. “My alarm didn’t go off.”

Jun snorts. “Soonyoung, dude, it’s, like, three PM.”

“You’re not my mom, you don’t tell me how to live my life.”

“At least you’re awake,” Jihoon says rather non-murderously to someone who broke the first Spoon Rule. “Can you replace Jun? He doesn’t know how to press buttons.”

“I know how to press _yours_—”

“Ugh, just fut the shuck up.”

Mingyu tries to read the faces of the freshman around him to see if they also feel like they’re interrupting something. They do. Mingyu is relieved.

It finishes rather painlessly after that. The freshmen girls start talking about which new restaurants, cafes, and miscellaneous eateries seem like good places to start. The older freshmen guys shudder or brag about military life with those who’ve already gone while making up nightmares for those who have yet to go.

“If I could, I would’ve gone straight after high school. Those years aren’t important enough remember anything in the long run,” says Soonyoung, running fingers through his bright shock of hair. “University though? At least five percent of that shit is useful.”

“Five percent,” Mingyu echoes a little helplessly. “What do you study?”

“Finance.” It’s spat with a mixture of disgust and financially-stable acceptance. “Yeah, yeah, it’s snaky, I know. My asshole of a platonic soulmate teases me about it all the time.”

“Platonic soulmate?”

“Yeah! Hates the title, though. Ruins the edginess or whatever.”

Mingyu nods, understanding nothing.

“Y’know what? As if he can judge me,” Soonyoung blazes on, getting up on his feet and dramatically shaking his fist at the horizon. “He’s in comp sci. What a dick, right? I mean, in this day and age, how can you get any snakier than that? He kept joking about interning at some hotshot tech startup and then he goes and _does it _without telling me and, like, what an asshat! Honestly, I’m supposed to be the better and smarter and handsomer half of us—”

“You can take ‘better’ and ‘smarter,’ but I definitely contend ‘handsomer.’”

Mingyu’s heart doesn’t even bother with the “skipping a beat” shtick—it just about fucking _stops_. Figuratively. Spontaneously dying at the beginning of freshman year won’t look good on a job resume.

“At this point, even I would deign to give Soonyoung all three,” Jihoon drones from where he was talking vegan bakeries with a sophomore. “Your sleep schedule is worse than his, which says a lot.”

“His sleep schedule is by choice. Mine is by circumstance,” _holy shit_ _is that_ Jeon Wonwoo argues back, low and rich and slightly raspy because it’s the afternoon and he must have only woken up not long ago. “You try being assigned a bunch of shitheads for your senior design project. One of them still thinks computer science girls don’t exist unironically.”

“Isn’t your group, like, half girls?”

“Hell yeah. Thank god for that.”

“Fine, you are exonerated,” Jihoon says, airily waving his hand before returning to his riveting discussion on flax seed egg substitutes.

“He’s going soft,” Wonwoo loud-whispers to Jun, who’s joined him at the doorway. “I think we’re cracking him.”

“Nah, he’s already a softie,” Jun loud-whispers back.

“Get off your not-face cheeks and indoctrinate the freshmen,” Jihoon loud not-whispers back.

Wonwoo starts humming under his breath before engaging in a conversation with a nearby group of comically perplexed first-year boys.

Mingyu’s mind is moving a million miles a minute:

First, holy shit what the fuck.

Second, what the fuck holy shit.

Third, why hasn’t Wonwoo noticed him yet? Why hasn’t Wonwoo greeted him yet? Why hasn’t Wonwoo looked in Mingyu’s general direction since Soonyoung was talking to Mingyu earlier and Wonwoo had interrupted Soonyoung with an impeccable sense of timing so, by virtue of that logic, should have definitely noticed Mingyu by now? Right?

Maybe Wonwoo has forgotten about him. He has, hasn’t he? Fuck. There’s no other way Wonwoo could have just scanned a room of around thirty people, half of which have female-presenting chests, and completely skipped over Mingyu.

That’s the only explanation. Wonwoo forgetting about him. What a sick feeling—what a suddenly, penetratingly bitter feeling that is.

Mingyu quickly realizes he’s been staring, owl-eyed, mouth slightly agape, at the back of Wonwoo’s head for the past thirty seconds.

On paper that doesn’t seem like much. But then it actually happens and Jun pokes him, says “Mingyu? You good, bud?” which _finally_ makes Wonwoo turn around and notice the staring and _shit_ suddenly every excessively long Twitter rant series starts paling in comparison to this.

Wonwoo, face unchanging except for the slight upward curl to the bottom of his eyes, utters a single, simple:

“Mingyu.”

He behind the name actually almost shits himself.

Also, Mingyu lied. Wonwoo adds on an, “Is that you?” with a certain hesitance, almost stretching astonishment, that puts out Mingyu’s voice box for repair.

Seven hundred thirty days of life-crushing, brain-draining active military duty—let alone seven years of good old-fashioned separation preluded by two of just _staring—_couldn’t have prepared Mingyu for this.

“Yeah, he’s Minghao’s friend,” Jun says. “Do you know him?”

“I,” Wonwoo starts, then pauses.

And just that single point of punctuated silence obliterates Mingyu’s entire skeletal integrity in an instant. And not in a good, mushy-feelings kind of way.

“I do,” Wonwoo says, quiet. “I knew him. A long time ago.”

Knew. That’s…past tense.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Mingyu is already standing on his two left feet, dusting off nothing from his pants, and exiting the club room with the speed of someone who just had a brief, non-lethal brush with a death, and by “death” he means the grossly eviscerating feelings from a bygone era he apparently didn’t do the greatest job of sorting out.

So, TL;DR: Mingyu signed up on a whim for a club he’s definitely not qualified for; went to the first meeting; was reminded of how not-actually-suppressed unrequited feelings from middle school can be; and finally fled the fucking premises because his fragile little heart couldn’t take it.

He couldn’t take seeing his past catch up with him like _this_ when he’s a dozen disasters rolled into one, and he doesn’t regret a thing.

“I regret everything,” Mingyu groans the next day in Minghao’s apartment, into an embroidered pillow that used to belong to Minghao’s great grandmother. Smells like old people. “It was so disrespectful and dumb and _ugh_. Why am I such a dingleberry? I’m, like, the dumbest dingleberry on the dingleberry tree at peak dingleberry season.”

Seokmin, who is seated on the lazy boy next to the couch-turned-counseling bed, has his fingertips pressed against one another, lensless glasses on his nose, positioned like someone whose knowledge of therapy is solely dependent on D-list TV shows that get cancelled after two seasons.

“Mr. Kim,” Seokmin says rather seriously, “Do you know what a dingleberry is?”

“Seokmin, what—”

“Dr. Lee.”

“Dr. Lee, what does that have to do with—"

“The words you use reflect the state of your psyche.” Seokmin sighs a haughty, fake-PhD sigh. “A dingleberry can be broken down into its components, ‘dingle,’ a slang synonym for dangle, and ‘berry,’ which is similarly synonymous to a man’s testicles.”

“Just shove some tide pods down my ears, why don’t you,” Minghao hisses with increasingly violent intent as Chan sends him a blue shell.

“Based on my notes,” Seokmin says whilst trailing down his invisible notepad, “You have what I call ‘Sora Religiously Repeating Riku’s Name While Riku is Trapped in the Realm of Darkness with Mickey Mouse’ syndrome.”

“What is—what?”

“My work is done here. I take cash or credit.” Dr. Lee adjusts his glasses and heads to the bathroom for his usual early evening trip. Live with a guy long enough and you start to remember these things.

“I don’t even get a secretarial discount?” Mingyu accuses. “What a rip-off. I quit.”

“What Seokmin means,” Minghao grits through his teeth because Chan is definitely not kicking his ass, “is that you’ve been subconsciously obsessed with Hot Topic for years despite the long-term separation and it’s kind of annoying at this point, but you shouldn’t worry because things will eventually work themselves out, albeit in an unnecessarily convoluted manner, and the rodent mascot for a company built on evil and lies is involved for some reason _LEE CHAN YOU SON OF A PEACH.”_

“Read the receipt, chump dump,” Chan says, somehow politely. “Someone owes me and the Mushroom Kingdom Princess a dinner.”

“Hao, you have a gambling problem,” Mingyu says above the distant flush of Seokmin’s daily rituals. “Couldn’t you have warned me that, oh _I don’t know, _the one-sided love of my life who permeated a significant part of my adolescence is also a student at the very university we are in right now?”

“You’d’ve switched schools you_ ass turd_—not you, Mingyu.”

“Then why’d you have to tell Jun about it? Now Wonwoo probably knows and my life is ruined with a small chance of redemption if I drop school and start a taco truck.”

“I didn’t tell Jun, just said you’re an emotional eater and would probably find some productive respite in channeling your energies through critical appraisal of local eateries _fucking dickface_—not you, Mingyu.”

“You suck at keeping secrets,” Mingyu grumbles.

“It’s not really a secret if everyone and their ancestors know,” Chan says sweetly in the face of Minghao’s broken pride after having won three games in a row.

Minghao high-fives Chan before throwing more, this time Mario-themed expletives at him. Mingyu sighs, wondering how the shy Chinese student he befriended in high school turned into such a menace in university.

“So what do I do now?” Mingyu asks rather helplessly.

Chan looks as peaceful as Buddha himself, while Minghao has completely crumpled over the coffee table.

“Nothing,” Chan suggests.

“Nothing?”

“Yeah, nothing. Like Dr. Lee said, things’ll work out by themselves.”

“I, that,” Mingyu sits up, clears his throat, brushes his mussed hair back into place. “Yeah, okay. I can do that. I can do nothing. I’m great at that.”

He’s not.

In his defense, being dragged against his will to a barbecue that’s more alcohol than food technically counts as “doing nothing”, and that satiating hunger is less an autonomous choice and more survival instinct. Every decision he makes is already basically written into the universal fabric of The Future, so, even though he’s doing “something,” he’s actually doing “nothing” since all “something”s are outside his nonexistent free will. Probably?

“Cool your metaphysics, Oedipus,” Soonyoung swivels over another soju bottle, “And drink.”

“I’m out of my mom’s league,” Mingyu says offhand, feeling entirely victimized. Or tipsy. Or both. “Not that I was even thinking of being in her league—”

Jun chokes on his rice. “You’re definitely not drunk enough. Please. For everyone’s sakes.”

Mingyu, seeing that logic very lucidly, takes a swig.

“Is Wonwoo coming?” Mingyu blearily recognizes himself ask.

Jun shakes his head. “I texted him, but I wouldn’t bet on it. The guy’s not a fan of crowded gatherings.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Wanted to see him?”

“No, was just curious.”

Jun claps him on the shoulder. “If it’s any consolation, my dude, Wonwoo is full of surprises. A bag of ‘em, that guy. Or was it luck? He’s a bag of something.”

“Yeah, a bag of dicks!” Soonyoung burps.

Mingyu, untrusting of his fuzzy tongue, leaves it at that.

“Tradition time, chucklefucks,” declares Editor-in-Chief-slash-God to a round of applause. There goes his valiant attempt at being PG. “Never Have I Ever. Grab a cup and prepare to get fucking _plastered_.”

Jihoon slams down a stack of plastic shot glasses and the biggest bottle of cherry vodka Mingyu has ever seen.

Mingyu doesn’t even get to breathe before a senior with poodle hair and a terribly unappealing salmon polo shoves a prefilled shot into his vicinity. Curse the implicit rules of Korean age hierarchies.

Seeing as he has no choice, Mingyu tries damned best to mentally brace himself for a serious hepatic fuck— a systematic hepatic fucking— a fucked hepatic system. There we go.

“Never have I ever,” Jihoon starts, “sexy-kissed a guy.”

“Okay, _Straight Dude,” _someone hollers.

“Drunk or sober?” someone else asks.

“Darling, there’s always some sober in the drunk,” a third person says.

At least half the party throws back. Mingyu is not in that demographic.

“Never have I ever double-majored in composition and international relations while being one hundred sixty-four centimeters,” Jun shoots next.

“Fuck you,” Jihoon shoots back with his shot. “And it’s one-hundred sixty-four and a _half_ centimeters, asshole!”

It goes around like this. There’s a scattering of the usual statements (broken a bone, travelled abroad, had sex in a study room, etcetera), as well as some clearly targeted ones (tried to swallow both chopsticks, used handcuffs as a pasta portioner, had a fling with all his 3rd year roommates at least once—“Assholes, all of you,” whines Jun before his nth shot).

“Never have I ever,” giggles a girl into the shoulder of the girl next to her, “wanted to fuck a sunbae.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re a cougar,” Soonyoung says sourly, downing his cherry poison like a champ. “Everyone else’s got a sunbae they want to fuck.”

Pretty much everyone takes the shot. Reassurance from this observation is the only way Mingyu can drink his.

By the end of several rounds, Mingyu has taken a moderate amount by normal people standards—except Korean “normal” is far beyond actual normal, so Mingyu might actually be seeing the edges of the universe right now.

“I’m gonna get some air,” Mingyu announces. He’s out the door before the waitress can tempt him with the smell of vegetable pancakes.

The chilled air is sobering on Mingyu’s overheated skin. He can feel the warm blood rushing to the surface, seeking the touch of passing breezes but never moving further than skin-deep. For the few atrocious times he’s gotten stupid drunk, it feels good in this moment. Like problems don’t exist. Like reality has dissolved and stopped being what it should be.

But the perception of unreality doesn’t stop a knock of nausea from pushing this fool into the nearby alleyway where, of course, he runs into exactly the person he didn’t want to run into.

“—ing in January? I’m sure your mom’ll be happy to see you, at least—”

It’s dark in there, while the world outside is loud, bright, and bustling.

Still, somehow, it all quiets down, focuses on the way Jeon fucking Wonwoo is smiling into his phone, half-disintegrated cigarette between his fingers and the gleam of distant streetlights on the rim of his rounded glasses.

He laughs a little, leans against the brick wall that Mingyu is ninety-nine percent sure is covered in at least a decade’s worth of body fluids.

“—becue restaurant. Club stuff. Are you seriously calling from Manhattan? Without Internet? Text me a photo of your phone bill, you actual dingus—”

Either Mingyu is developing this stupid knack for finding Wonwoo at every wrong turn, or he’s so balls off the walls right now on alcohol that he’s hallucinating his childhood crush in very specific casual attire in a dark alleyway like some intimacy-deprived creep who really needs closure for his indomitable tween-era feelings.

“—you later. Yeah, yeah, I’ll stop by the post office tomorrow. Bye._ Bye._ Miss you. Love you, too, or whatever.”

The phone call ends. Wonwoo notices Mingyu all by himself—not that he really had a choice this time. They lock eyes for a second, and Mingyu feels like his entire life story is about to burst out of his esophagus.

Unsurprisingly, like any other creature of habit, Mingyu decides on the coward’s route of leaving and does his best to navigate the slightly uneven ground back to the restaurant without disturbing the beast. And by beast, he means nausea. And by nausea, he means gross, gross vomit.

God, he must be out of his mind. There’s no other way he could still feel so unrequited like this. But maybe it’s just the vodka talking.

“It’s a chatty drink,” Soonyoung consoles.

“And I’m a great listener,” Mingyu slurs. Against better judgement, he pours himself another shot.

Somewhere, in the vague recesses of Mingyu’s liver-bursting, skull-bleeding, nut-busting (wait, scratch that last one) hangover that probably equates in pain magnitude to the death penalty before people were like, “Hey, human rights are a thing,” Mingyu wonders if he should be this transfixed over Wonwoo after all this time.

Mingyu knows that Robert Frost was a Snobby Bobby about walking the road not taken, but Mingyu doesn’t see anything wrong with crowd surfing sometimes. Some paths are scarce in footprints for a reason.

Rebuild their friendship. That’s what Mingyu really wants at the end of the day. He wants to interact normally with Wonwoo again, to stop running away and just…talk like they used to. It’s only respectful to Wonwoo, and maybe Mingyu will finally get some peace of mind.

Here’s the thing, though: Mingyu’s a bit of a dumbass.

He’s lived long enough to be considered an adult (legally, at least), but he’s still young and full of raw, unadulterated testosterone. He somehow scraped the threshold for alpha male. He’s genetically predisposed to make illogical decisions.

Friendship first. Got it. Yes. He’s all about friendship. That good platonic stuff.

But where’s the fun in stopping there?

(“Your storytelling sucks,” Wonwoo used to say. He’d be physically recoiling at Mingyu’s attempts to upstage Jay O’Callahan when, in reality, Mingyu was just trying to impress Wonwoo. And it worked, maybe, in a roundabout way.

“As if yours is any better,” Mingyu would lie.

“Wanna bet?”

“I’d rather experience the linguistic genius for free.”

“Don’t try to make this a charity case. I’ve got bills to pay.”

“Video game bills,” Mingyu would amend because he’s heard this too many times, and Wonwoo was still in his Dudebro Gaming phase. “Or ‘tendencies,’ as you keep calling them.”

“Fine, fine,” Wonwoo acquiesced. “I think I’ve got a good one.”

It was about an orphan who sold his heart to an innkeeper. Having done the same long ago, the innkeeper offered the orphan permanent stay. The orphan refused, requesting only a single night.

Wonwoo isn’t the type to build extravagant or textured soundscapes. His stories are never tragic, nor are his characters. Instead, he uses words like dice in a gambling ring, experimental and unpredictable. There’s a beauty in risk as there is beauty in chance. The core of Wonwoo’s vision was always strong enough for the periphery to go unsaid, just as Mingyu’s vision didn’t need all of Wonwoo for everything to be seen.

“The next morning,” Wonwoo said, “The innkeeper held the orphan’s heart close to his chest, wistful over how warm such a thing could be.”

Mingyu couldn’t stop the smile from splitting his face in half. “It’s a solid two thumbs up for me, chief.”

“I was hoping for the golden three thumbs.”

“I can give you two thumbs and a toe?”

“Yuck.” Wonwoo kicked Mingyu’s foot away from his. “You already smell like chlorine. I don’t need to associate more bad things with you.”

“You love it,” Mingyu teased. “You keep coming back for more.”

“Me?” Wonwoo has the worst fake-affronted face in the world. “Maybe it is you, sir, with quote unquote ‘tendencies.’”

Mingyu laughed. He did it every time. “Yeah,” he’d say, “You’re probably right.”)

It isn’t long before Mingyu accidentally runs into Wonwoo again.

“Never would’ve thought of you as a drinker,” Wonwoo greets. “I guess I’m still right.”

Today marks the first full week of classes. They’re in one the prettier smoking areas on campus, just a few blocks away from the communications building Mingyu was heading to. There is a single metal bench on a circle of concrete bricks, surrounded by trees dressing themselves up for the upcoming fall. In front of them is beautiful patch of hibiscuses and gladioli that seem stuck in a peaceful, earthly sway.

“Never would’ve thought of you as a smoker,” Mingyu echoes, eyeing the cigarette loosely held between Wonwoo’s fingers. “Army habit?”

“Stress habit.” Wonwoo exhales with practiced evenness. The smoke is quickly erased with a soft flush of wind. “I’m holding off on army stuff for as long as I can, to be honest.”

“Why?”

“Did you even _do_ your service?”

“Hey, the exercises aren’t so bad.”

“You would say that, meathead.”

Mingyu can’t help but grin. The banter feels familiar, like turning on a track record he’s only now remembering existed, but throw him into karaoke and he wouldn’t even need to look at the screen to know the words by heart. It’s all muscle memory.

Wonwoo sees Mingyu’s smile and reflects it, even if it’s slight. He scooches over on the bench and pats the empty seat beside him.

“Does it bother you?” he asks.

“Would you stop if I said it did?” Mingyu deflects as he sits.

“Old habits,” Wonwoo lets out another soft, almost silent sigh, “die hard.”

“Do you still do stories, then?”

“Sometimes. The food journal is a decent creative outlet. There’s also a prose magazine I submit to when the urge strikes.”

“Can I hear them? Or read them? Sometime?”

“I’ll send them to you when I get home. Jihoon has your email, right?”

“Yeah. Cool.” Silence passes. “So, uh, I hear that you’re majoring in computer science.”

“Can’t do linguistics in good conscience with the tuition that high. You?”

“Consumer psychology.”

“Weird, I expected something like econ or finance. Something snakey.”

Mingyu has the gall to look astounded. “Says the snake.”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes rather extravagantly. “Don’t listen to Soonyoung. Only forty percent of the stuff that comes out of his mouth is remotely accurate.”

“Was he wrong about comp snakes?”

“…no, but he is definitely wrong about anything about a trip to China last summer—”

Ah, Wonwoo’s voice has grown terribly deep, and it while doesn’t fit at first, it resonates exactly the same as before. God, it even _feels_ the same.

The more Mingyu looks at Wonwoo, the more he notices how the age has started flaunting itself on someone dignified enough to wear it. So much has changed, and yet so much really has stayed the same.

“Mingyu?”

“It’s…weird,” Mingyu says plainly, “Seeing you after so long of…not, I guess.”

“Jesus, you have no idea.”

“Is this the point at which I say I’m Mingyu, not Jesus?”

Wonwoo bursts out a single pity laugh. “One, shut up. Two, shut up. And three, I’ve been this tired and pale since the day I was dragged out of my poor mother’s body. But you? Have you even looked in a mirror lately? No, scratch that, a yearbook picture from middle school? No? Okay, that’s your homework. Do that, and then you can get back to me about how weird it is for, for _this,”_ vague wavy gesture, “to happen. All of a sudden.”

“I—what?”

“You look different, you froot loop. I barely recognize you.”

Well, yeah. Mingyu recognizes that he’s taller, got a tan and some build from the military, finally started listening to his mom about clothes and hair, and—oh. That probably explains the clubroom fiasco disaster apocalypse.

“Makes sense,” is all Mingyu can pathetically muster. “So, uh, what about you?”

“Full question, please.”

“Have a lot of things changed for you?”

“I don’t know,” Wonwoo says, “You tell me.”

There are a million and one ways Mingyu can churn up something similar to Wonwoo’s bite-sized tirade but in incredible, unnecessarily excessive detail.

Mingyu could mention how mature Wonwoo’s aura has become, like a good leather or fine wine. More than that, his speech is more slick-witted now, almost lyrical in a newfound confidence likely borne from the taste of independence.

Mingyu could mention that Wonwoo’s fashion sense is now more cut and pressed, chic, like a sharpened contemporary art piece made simply to contrast the seeming half-effort of everything else. Even his hair, before shiny and dark and untamed like crows’ feathers, is a softer dark brown and curlier and meaningfully mussed, as if there are fingers always running through it.

Wonwoo looks more put together but also, to the same degree, not. It’s hard to cohere. This must be what adulthood looks like.

It’s part of the brand at this rate to take the coward’s route, so Mingyu just throws back, “I don’t know. You tell me. Still wasting away on video games?”

“You’re still such a rude child. Santa must have hated you.”

“Tell that to the PSP you kept taking from me during lunch period.”

“That was from your mom.”

“Don’t ruin my childhood!”

Wonwoo laughs—for real this time. “Rude, _rude_ child. You know what?”

As quickly as Wonwoo retrieves a Sharpie from his bag (which is to say an unhurried but efficient pace), he’s scrawled something that vaguely looks like his phone number or drug handler’s contact to the back of Mingyu’s hand.

What happened to asking for Mingyu’s phone and inputing the number like a normal person? Wonwoo just grabbed his hands so Mingyu ain’t gonna question it.

Just so you know, Mingyu, like the good and wholesome person he is, doesn’t notice how long and a little spindly Wonwoo’s fingers have become, with thin callouses at the tips and the burn scar Mingyu remembers from a childhood Mother’s Day project gone wrong. And Mingyu _definitely_ doesn’t linger on the way the morning light hits Wonwoo’s nose as he tips down his face to check his watch.

Mingyu is still young, after all. Innocent and good with no ulterior motives whatsoever (he tells himself, like a liar).

“I’m late to being late to class. We can catch up later,” Wonwoo says as he trashes his Lung Cancer in a Stick. “Oh, one more thing. Keep your Friday afternoon schedule open.”

“Sure.”

“Not gonna ask why?”

“Oh, uh, why?”

Wonwoo snorts. He does it whenever he’s simultaneously amused and dumfounded by something dumb Mingyu has said or done. Mingyu is glad to see that the muscle memory isn’t a one-way thing.

“Because,” Wonwoo says, grinning, “We’ve got a date.”

**To:** kmg9797@naver.com

**From:** spoonsrule@gmail.com

Dear Mingyu,

Thank you for joining The Spoon as a freshman editor! You have been assigned to shadow and assist one of our senior editors, Jeon Wonwoo, who is CC’ed onto this email. Please get in contact with him about your first assignment.

And remember: forks are for dorks, but spoons make you swoons! (If you have any suggestions for our slogan, please let us know. Rhymezone sucks and the pioneers of this club clearly weren’t studying creative writing.)

Sincerely,  
Jun Hui  
The Spoon Journal Managing Editor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all have no idea how many comp sci/engineering students I know at my uni who just _have_ a Sharpie at all times. It’s incredible.


	2. tacos & makgeolli mojitos

******mingupingu**  
_[SCREENSHOT]_  
fcukfuckfuckfukc  
FUCK ME  
(not like that)  
helppppppp p pp

**thatlostseok  
** Omg mingyu  
Calm  
Please

**mingupingu**  
wat doOO

**thatlostseok  
** Ho?? Have fun?? Eat for free and get me sth?  
*Go lol

**mingupingu  
** no way thats like phantom thirdwheeling**  
** wat wear?**  
** wat text??**  
**brush teeth b/w bites so no stank breath???????????

**thatlostseok  
** Your overthinking again j chill my dude**  
** Dress like you usually do**  
**Wear that one navy dress shirt that makes yuor moobs look güd 😩😩😩

**mingupingu  
** i dont have moobs i hav pecs excuse u  
hate u  
thanks

**thatlastseok**  
Charge that sesh to my secretary

**mingupingu**  
I AM!! YOUR SECRETARY!!!

Friday morning, Mingyu wakes up to a box of Trojans at his door with a sticky note on top: _Get that dick, bro! -Cool Spice & _<strike>_Chinese Spice_</strike>_ MH._ Mingyu really hates his friends sometimes.

He takes the box anyway. Wrap it up or pack it up, he supposes.

After zipping through his morning classes, Mingyu spends more than a reasonable number of hours figuring out what to wear to a casual but slightly pricey restaurant that is, quote unquote, a, “neoliberal modernistic eatery for the casual nouveau bourgeoisie.”

Mingyu isn’t, like, fluent in history or anything, but he’s pretty sure Korean-Mexican food has nothing to do with art movements or…capitalism.

“Marxism either,” Wonwoo adds. He’s glaring quite menacingly at the menu display outside the restaurant. Must be trying new contacts. “Points for offering cocktails by the pitcher, though.”

Mingyu winces. Wonwoo chuckles.

As the host leads them into the dimly-lit interior, Mingyu tells himself in comically rapid succession that it’s not a date, it’s not a date, _it’s not a date_—not a proper one, anyway, which he almost had a heart attack thinking over when Wonwoo first said the cursed word.

Mingyu glances at his side long enough to notice the loose, sleek drape of his companion’s shirt over pointed shoulders. Wonwoo’s arms are warmly tinged from the fake decorative wall candles, but the imaginary bronze can’t hide the natural silver-pale at the palms and neck, at the places untouched by sun. There are several nondescript rings on his right hand, a few braided bracelets on the left. One pierced ear has a mole on the outermost curve Mingyu doesn’t recall seeing before but Lord knows he will now.

When Mingyu sits, he sighs. It’s going to be a long evening.

After Wonwoo finishes reciting his list of menu items to the waitress like some Organized Person, he asks Mingyu, “You still swim?”

“Me?”

“No, the spirits. _Yes,_ you.”

“Sometimes, if I’m that desperate to relive those All-Star meets again.”

“Didn’t you enjoy those?”

“Yeah, but.” Mingyu clears his throat, decides against saying, _They remind me of middle school and, by proxy, you_. “Weight training’s better. It was one of the few things in the army that I liked. Kept me grounded and all that. I also stopped smelling like chlorine, which is a bonus.”

“Oh yeah,” Wonwoo says, nodding. “I noticed.”

Mingyu clears his throat again. “Do you do anything in your free time? Besides reviewing restaurants from the authoritative perspective of a struggling college student who probably brought his Gundam Wing figurine collection from home.”

“A daring assumption,” Wonwoo says, “That is one hundred percent true.”

“Pft, do you still shine them?”

“It’s not like they’ll stop gathering dust if I don’t.”

Mingyu grins, wide and toothy and a little crooked, and it might not be because the kimchi carnitas and chicken wings have arrived.

The two of them banter and bite through those, as well as about a dozen mini tacos split between them and the biggest burrito baby Mingyu has ever laid his mortal eyes on. They make sure to take photos, notes, and more photos but this time for The Tablespoon, the club’s Instagram account, which takes more teamwork than usual because coordinating a glass clink for a boomerang is _hard_.

It’s not a date.

At some point, Wonwoo offers Mingyu a sip of his makgeolli mojito, which Mingyu swallows down like a champ because he hates makgeolli but it’d be rude to say no.

“Institutionally, I’m three years your senior. Physically, the Wii Fit tells me I’m in my fifties,” Wonwoo says, “But that doesn’t mean you have to treat me that way. What did I say before?”

“Hyung first,” Mingyu recites, “Sunbae second. Sorry.”

“That, or Dark Lord of the Sixth Circle of Hell if you need a good word in the underworld. Only if you’re desperate, though.”

Mingyu’s tongue still tastes like chalk and tequila. “Noted, Sir Lord Dark. Lark Dord. _Dark Lord_. Okay, yeah, I’ll just stick to hyung.”

Wonwoo nearly laughs out his fish taco. God, Mingyu hopes his face isn't as red as it feels.

He learns a little more about Wonwoo’s time in Tokyo—decent Korean community in his neighborhood, surprisingly more towards the outskirts of the city than Wonwoo expected. Quieter than expected, too. His neighborhood was environmentally sensitive, small and tight-knit. Reminded him a lot of Changwon. He liked Japan. He misses it sometimes.

Oh, and yes, Wonwoo got Mingyu’s letters. He’s very sorry for not responding. High school was…well, it was high school.

Mingyu waves it off. The past was the past, don’t worry about it. _This_ is way better than any return letters. He doesn’t say that last bit.

Mingyu tells Wonwoo about the move to Seoul—how he met Minghao, a student from China whose family couldn’t afford the fancy international schools so the public high schools had to do. But there were enough foreigners, and Mingyu, so everything turned out alright. Mingyu talks about medaling in backstroke in provincials the first year, then pre-nationals his second year, but couldn’t push past city finals in the third. It sucked. He cried a lot. Probably would’ve drowned in the tears since he swore off swimming after that.

“What made you start it up again? Recreationally, at least.” Wonwoo’s tone is a weird mixture of soft, serious, and concerned. Maybe relief.

Mingyu twiddles his fingers in his lap. “Missed the way it felt, maybe. Gymming is a recent thing. But swimming was part of me for so long. Maybe it still is. I guess it’s only natural to want come back eventually.”

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything, just stares at him, like he’s wading through a mudslide of thoughts in his head because some stupid earthquake couldn’t keep its mouth shut. Was Mingyu too obvious again? He mentally smacks himself for having exactly negative five tact.

“Besides,” Mingyu continues awkwardly, “It’s far quieter under water than at the weight racks. Better for thinking.”

“My bad, I was trying to think of how to sound empathetic,” Wonwoo says. “Sadly, my tenuous bones and I cannot.”

“We should go together some time.”

“Sorry, forgot you don’t read. Tenuous means fragile—”

“I know what it means, you _jerk_—”

It continues like this.

One and a half hours on Mingyu’s iCal doubles into three and perhaps a little more than that. Wonwoo tries more cocktails. Mingyu’s stomach is bottomless. Everything is on the club budget and they’ve got a lot to catch up on, just as long as Mingyu keeps his blabber filter in check.

It’s not a date, it’s not a date, _it’s not a date_, Mingyu knows, damn it. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t having the time of his life and _fuck_ he really doesn’t want this night to end.

It feels like he’s dipped his toes into a time warp and he’s back at that tteokbokki hole-in-the-wall, calling the auntie for another round of soft drinks while watching Wonwoo bite into a snappy radish cube. Now it’s the grown-up version, the Many Years Later version, with pretentious tacos and cocktails and deeper laughter unbroken by puberty.

For an indulgent moment, just for a little, in his mind Mingyu lets this be a date—because dates always end. But memories? They’re stupidly, agonizingly unforgettable.

This frame of mind is better, he tells himself. So it’s fine. It’s fine.

“Hey, let’s take a photo together,” Mingyu says after the waitress drops off the receipt. “T-To commemorate this dinner! It’s our first since middle school. Only if you want to, though. But if you don’t, that’s also cool! Totally cool. We’re here on a job, after all, although we’re not getting paid. I guess we’ve also already taken photos of the food and that’s really what matters at the end of the day, so—”

Wonwoo claps the check holder closed, loud enough to shut Mingyu up.

“Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Let’s do it outside. The staff have been giving us some potentially murderous looks for a while now.”

They quickly shuffle out of the neoliberal modernistic eatery and into the monstrous waves of people and light and tumult only a Friday night urban jungle can birth. It smells like expensive perfume and the savory smoke of distant food stands, of brightly lit cigarettes and the amber musk of cheap beer, whiskey. There is raucous laughter on Mingyu’s right, quiet, giggly chatter on his left. It’s environments like this that make feeling overwhelmed nothing less than exhilarating. And Mingyu drinks it all in.

Maybe Wonwoo is right. Maybe Mingyu is a little addicted to the inebriation.

“You take it,” Wonwoo says, drawing out his phone and handing it to Mingyu. “I’m terrible at selfies.”

“At last, it’s my time to shine.”

“Not a waste of tuition, I see.”

“Hey, research shows that the act of selfie-taking, and social media use by close association, is implicated in psychopathic levels of self-presentation and narcissism, however there appear to be stark gender differences in—”

“Joking, joking,” Wonwoo placates, hooking an arm around Mingyu’s waist. “I’d call you a nerd, but kettle and pot, I guess.”

Mingyu feels so good right now. The weight on his hip feels even greater. “There’s nothing wrong with nerds.” Emboldened by the blinding hustle around them, he hooks his fingers onto Wonwoo’s shoulder. “I think they’re pretty sweet.”

“Just take the damn photo already,” says Wonwoo, smiling with teeth at the camera. “You nerd.”

“Congratulations on not instantaneously combusting,” Seokmin says, voice probably strained from glee club practice. He’s staring intently at his phone. A half-eaten take-out box sits on the dining room table. “Gross photo though.”

“Thanks?” Mingyu shucks off his coat and shoes at the door. “I actually thought the photos were good, given the lighting situation. Wonwoo forgot his SD card at home, so we had to use my phone instead of the fancy camera he brought—”

“Not the food, bro.” Seokmin lifts his phone and shows the photo, _that_ photo, which makes Mingyu’s heart jump into his throat just from looking at it. “Wonwoo posted this recently.”

“I’m a fragile man, Seok, don’t play with my heart like this.”

“The way this guy seems to every time he so much as breathes in your direction?”

Mingyu makes a series of shushing noises. His face is stuck in a smile.

“Don’t set off the fire alarm, it’s just on his insta-story. Read the text.”

Seokmin tosses his phone at Mingyu, who nearly drops the damn thing because Seokmin can never seem to remember that Mingyu was born with the superpower of dropping what people hold dear to them.

Mingyu reads too quickly to comprehend anything, so he goes a second time, slowly and a little shaky: _Reunited after almost a decade and he just HAS to be taller than me._

Mingyu’s heart feels so full and ready to spill over. If he spontaneously combusted in this very moment, he’d be A-okay with that.

“Don’t,” Seokmin warns. “We've still got a grocery run tomorrow.”

Okay, fine, no sudden death by bursting into flames. But still. Mingyu feels so incredibly happy.

**wonline**  
Hey  
Just realized that Into The Shadows comes out tomorrow  
Lets watch it after the cafe thing

**mingupingu**  
HORROR??  
DO YUP HAT E ME?????

**wonline**  
I do not

**mingupingu**  
you doooooo :’((((

**wonline**  
I may have a soft spot for tears  
Sorry thats very Jihoon of me to say

**mingupingu**  
nothat soudjs exactly like you

**wonline**  
Yeah youre right  
Go to bed  
You wont be able to after tomorrow

**mingupingu**  
I HATE YOU

**wonline**  
Haha you wish

Between the difficulty of classes and shenanigans from The Spice Boys, these not-dates with Wonwoo end up being a semi-regular event to look forward to with every email.

There’s a chicken and beer shack headed by a Korean lady and her Tennessean husband; then a gastro pub with affordable pricing and a mad bastard of a genius owner; and after that is a Gudetama-themed popup that isn’t mind-blowing by any stretch but _good lord_ everything was ludicrously adorable.

Smiles abound, photos abundant—Mingyu could live like this forever.

It’s just, even with only a year’s worth of difference by birth certificate plus a couple extra by duty, there’s a distance Mingyu can’t jump no matter the persistence or willpower.

“Oh, you used to do that all the time as a kid.”

“Is it too spicy for the baby?”

“Don’t worry, I’m here if the scary monsters are too scary for you.”

Wonwoo always says that stuff in jest, and Mingyu knows he can’t simply will maturity into his personality the same way revitalized affection can. But Mingyu can’t help but become more conscious of his childishness, even the slightest show of it.

And so Mingyu dedicates himself to the groundwork: drafting articles for the website, sorting through photos, scheduling reservations. Wonwoo balances any major editing with his desire to gamble with authority, i.e. bribing Jihoon with a six-pack of his favorite cereal so that one tryhard freshie with a stick up his ass doesn’t get to write about the new patisserie two blocks from Szechuan Noodle House.

“That unsophisticated meathead wouldn’t know the difference between a macaron and a macaroon if you shoved the Wikipedia pages down his eyes,” Wonwoo grits through his half-disintegrated cigarette. They’re sitting at a table outside a Seven Eleven. “Seriously, no class at all.”

Mingyu can only nod and sip at his canned coffee. Wonwoo blows out smoke. The light of the neon signs bleeds into the tendrils like water colors floating in the air.

“Sorry for dragging you here just to make you listen to me bitch,” Wonwoo offers dryly. “We probably would’ve finished earlier if I didn’t complain so much.”

“It’s all good,” Mingyu says, serene. “The dorms had a bit of a power outage recently. Seokmin’s out for a glee club retreat, so I was already packing my stuff for McDonalds or something.”

“Internet?”

“Internet.”

“Curse us millennials for becoming disconnected from the real world because of our insatiable addiction to an intangible digital one.”

“And for ruining the economy. All of it.”

“Amen to that.”

Wonwoo turns his head away and exhales another small cloud. Mingyu can still smell the bite and bitterness of the burning tobacco, the sooty character of the sizzling ash. It’s comforting, almost, in a perverted way, like a campfire that toasts respiratory tissue instead of marshmallows.

“I have a question,” Wonwoo says, running fingers through his hair.

Mingyu looks back at his computer screen. “Yeah sure. Shoot.”

“Do you remember Joshua? Joshua Hong?”

In the corner of Mingyu’s eye, the tip of Wonwoo’s cigarette burns bright red, like a stop light in the midnight darkness.

“How could I not?” says Mingyu. The silk of focus is slipping away. “He was my neighbor, after all.”

“Did you like him?”

“He was a good hyung. Really smart and nice. He was like an older brother to me.”

“He might be visiting.” Inhale. Exhale. “His grandmother is sick.”

“Oh. I see. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He lives in New York now, studying at some arts school or something.”

“Tisch? Good for him. I heard from my mom that he wanted to go there.”

“Hansol is organizing a meet-up. Plans on inviting everyone from a while back. It’s not official yet, since we don’t know if Josh is actually coming. But if it pushes through, would you go?”

Mingyu’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Maybe?”

Another inhale, a slower exhale. No one says anything for a moment in a rare lapse of silence blooming from the noisy concrete. Mingyu looks up and catches Wonwoo’s stare, a lazy one gathered at the corner-most part of his vision with barely an ounce of attention. As quickly as Mingyu catches it, the gaze is back on the street congestion with a slow, deliberate sweep.

Mingyu parts his lips on instinct. He hates unreadable quietness. Nothing comes out of his mouth.

“Send me whatever you have by tomorrow.” Wonwoo presses the butt of his cigarette into the ash tray. The red light is extinguished. “I’ll finish the rest and send it to Jihoon.”

The warm glow from the ashes dissipates with one last smoky tendril. And like that, Wonwoo is gone.

“So. I’m sad.”

“Well shit, dude, so am I,” Minghao says with the tone of a Saltine cracker. There’s an ominous bottle of apple cider in his hand. “We have so much in common.”

“Oh no. Why are you sad?”

“Maybe because you and Seokmin keep invading my batcave just to whine my ears off?”

“You gave us spare keys!”

“For _emergencies_, you dunces! Your Korean Legolas situation? That ain’t it! And neither is Seokmin’s glee club drama.”

“Oh yeah, he mentioned something about the color palette for their next costume set. Who thinks white and gold are okay outside of weddings?”

“Idiots, obviously.”

There is a pause. Minghao pinches the skin between his eyes. Mingyu opens his mouth, but, without looking up, Minghao holds up his hand to stop him.

“No.”

“I didn’t even—”

“_No. _After today, you’re banned from ever mentioning Won—hurrgh, Pavlovian response—you’re banned from mentioning your boy problems within hearing distance of my very, _very_ sensitive ears.” Minghao takes a swig of cider from the bottle despite the cup in his hand. “Face it, home skillet. You’re romantically and socially constipated to the point that you fall back on badly-structured and frankly uninspired platitudes to analyze your feelings. In vain.”

“…You’re not wrong. But you didn’t have to call me out like that.”

“Who else will?”

“My sister?”

“Is she here?”

Mingyu makes some pathetic noise that only supports Minghao’s argument, which, in all honesty, is something Mingyu needs.

“Let me tell you something, friend to friend, man to manchild—”

Mingyu takes it back.

“—Honest to god, it both worries and saddens me that you never seem to talk about anything else. Ever.”

“Hey, I may be constipated, uh, socially, but at least I love myself enough to major in something that doesn’t consume my life.”

“Between neuro and consumer psych, it’s clear which one would keep a person more in tune with the brain.”

“I hope you get a bad partner who thinks 4chan is a legitimate resource for your paired research project,” Mingyu hisses, simultaneously seething and tired of his own self-imposed complications. He knows this is a losing battle, but he’ll at least go down trying.

“Why,” Minghao starts, glancing between Mingyu’s vaguely downturned expression and the cider Mingyu just swiped from Minghao’s hand. “Why are you so serious about the guy? Isn’t it, like, unhealthy for you to be keeping this up for this long? If not longer?”

“Oh, for sure,” Mingyu agrees without hesitation. “But excessive sugar consumption is self-destructive and people still give in to cravings. It’s kind of the same.”

Minghao groans. “You are a walking nightmare. How do you sleep at night? Are you terrified of yourself? I am.”

Mingyu takes a swig of cider, lets his tongue savor the dry, sour candy taste of the fruits that were, once upon a time, in their prime—perhaps even a little earlier than that. Handpicked at the beginning of the season, time has hand-shaped what was once sweet into something to get drunk on. Minghao is right.

“Sometimes I am—scared, that is,” Mingyu says, eyebrows knitting at the ten stupid grams of sugar in every serving. There goes his ab workout. “But everyone’s gotta be scared of something, right?”

(He knew he shouldn’t be listening. It wasn’t like he intentionally put himself there, on the staircase, only ten steps away from home. He was coming back from practice and just heard someone’s voice—

“I…I like you.”

—And couldn’t bring himself move.

“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo quickly backtracked, sounding quiet, scared. “I’m sorry.”

When he ran down the stairs, he didn’t notice Mingyu.

When Mingyu got up, the last thing he saw was the front door of the Hong residence clicking shut.)

Mingyu is a healthy guy. He’s a healthy and wholesome and well-to-do individual who, after living a pre-pre-professionally athletic career in the earlier years of his life, is perfectly aware of what physical feats mortal human bodies can and cannot do.

An all-nighter falls entirely in the latter category. He pulls that shit anyway.

It’s not because he didn’t have the time to finish his work. The stupid amount of free time he has is half the reason he does consumer psych in the first place. But, of course, he has this awful habit of overthinking. Otherwise, you’d probably get this story in half the words.

So, yeah. Mingyu ends up procrastinating because his head’s stuck in his ass remembering old memories in new, excruciating detail. He can still feel how cold the concrete stairs were beneath the thin material of his running shorts.

Lucky for him, The Spoon is a privileged club on campus for having so many connections to the surrounding community at large, so of course it has its own clubroom—and by “clubroom,” Mingyu means a computer room without the computers because the budget is honestly impressive but not insane enough for that so it’s basically just a room with too many tables and chairs and a couch that some alumni stole from a nearby residential area. Go figure.

Despite the questionable off-smell about the couch, it’s not enough to stop Mingyu from passing out on top of it outside of club hours.

Don’t worry, he locks the door behind him. He won’t take too long.

(It’s embarrassing to say just how long young, desperate teen Mingyu has dreamt of kissing Wonwoo.

Below is a curated selection:

Heat waves in beach weather, tree leaves flutter-sing. Flavored ice shavings drip down sticky fingers, nails bitten. Cups empty, Mingyu asks to taste Wonwoo’s share.

Or, sun-faded playground tunnels that barely fit grown bodies. It’s a cold drum inside; words are heavy and loud. Mingyu finally says it, though likely on accident, and maybe Wonwoo finally fills what little space is left between them.

Or, graduation day. The cusp between spring and summer. Wonwoo finally lets his mom do his hair and Mingyu is only a vessel for all the dreadful emotions he has after seeing Wonwoo awkwardly hold that ten thousand-won bouquet of flowers Mingyu took four tries to buy.

Privation was in Wonwoo’s thoughts—Mingyu craved what Wonwoo withheld. That day, before Wonwoo would leave, Pandora’s box was meant to open. Mingyu was ready to risk it all.

As future met reality, the dreams would show up sometimes.

Each time, he and Wonwoo would be older. Each time, Mingyu’s eyes would be closed.)

When Mingyu wakes up, he feels like his head became a coconut that was split open by savages desperate for its nutritious, versatile, and vegan-friendly flesh.

“Morning, sunshine. Is it bad that I was about to say moonshine?”

Mingyu slowly shuts his eyes. Maybe he’s still dreaming.

“I should probably be telling you to not walk towards the light, but maybe there’s something interesting on the other side. I’m dying to know. Or I guess you are.”

“I’m not dead.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Mingyu cracks an eye open, tries to glare at Wonwoo who’s sitting backwards on a rolling chair in a way that’s bound to be a hazard. There’s a smugness somewhere in those stupid cheekbones. Handsome asshole.

“What’re you doing here,” Mingyu says, or rather tries to say, through the cotton feeling in his mouth.

“Youngjoo texted me that she left her pencil case here, but the door was locked,” Wonwoo replies. “It’s never locked.”

“Unsafe workplace practices.”

“There’s nothing worth taking in here.”

“_I_ am. Truly, you wound me,” Mingyu says, flinging his arm into the air. He lets it drop back down to his chest. It feels heavy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take advantage of the clubroom. M’just…tired.”

Wonwoo clicks his tongue. “Seoul night clubs are no joke.”

“Pulled an all-nighter.”

“My statement still stands.”

“Committed too hard. Not used to it.”

Wonwoo offers a tired chuckle. “You’re not supposed to be used to not sleeping, you idiot. In fact, it’s pretty fantastic that you aren’t. We live in a world that can’t seem to stop romanticizing the idea of overworking,” Wonwoo says. “No matter what anyone says, there’s no shame in taking a break, okay? You’re only human.”

Ha, overworking. Taking a break. Mingyu is entirely undeserving of that empathy.

Mingyu wraps his arms around his face in a half-assed attempt to shield the scarlet trickling up from his neck. “Hyung?”

“Yeah?”

“Am I fun to be around?”

Wonwoo snorts. “I thought you were better at fishing for compliments than that.”

“No doubt I am. Right now, I just,” Mingyu stutters a breath out his throat, “I know I can be kind of annoying. I’m clumsy and I can be too excited about things and I talk to much. I send one message in too many texts. I know I’m still…still a bit of a kid. But I’m—I don’t want you to feel like you need to take care of me, or hang out with me, like before. When we were younger.”

There is no wall clock in the clubroom; absent is the clicking metronome of metal needles to keep Mingyu’s brain on track. He counts in his head, where the seconds fall not like rocks or gravel or sand, but like petals floating off a craning flower.

“Mingyu.”

He clenches his jaw.

“I don’t hang out with you because I feel like I have to,” Wonwoo says. “It was never like that. I did it, and still do it now, because I want to. I don’t mean to treat you like that, or to sound...selfish. I’m sorry.”

Mingyu throws his arms off his face, immediately sits up and shouts “That’s—” _me! Me! I’m the selfish one! _he wants to say, because Wonwoo has no idea just how selfish Mingyu has been.

But he doesn’t get to finish. Not with how close he realizes Wonwoo is.

It’s dark. Wonwoo probably didn’t want to shock Mingyu awake by blinding him. It is only then that Mingyu registers that Wonwoo had diminished the distance between himself and the couch. One of them is ready to jump out of their skin. The other, poised.

Storm gray sweater and dark washed jeans, asymmetrical cross-chain earrings and dirty converse with those creepy heart faces on them. Wonwoo’s hair isn’t brushed. His eyes are excruciatingly, arrestingly glyphic. He’s close enough for Mingyu to still notice the soft river-veins at his jaw and neck and forearms.

Mingyu could easily lean forward and do the deed. He could finally satiate a history of insatiability right there.

“You’re,” _beautiful, kind, and clever as hell,_ Mingyu wants to finish. His skin prickles with the itch of familiar desire. “You’re not selfish. And, even if you are, there’s nothing wrong being a little selfish sometimes. You’re only human.”

He quickly looks away and brings his knees to his chest. Right now, his face feels like the sun with only the single intention of burning until burning out. Shame is inventive, said Nietzsche, and it’s surely making a fool out of Mingyu. He looks up again.

Something startles Wonwoo, or maybe the shock had already happened. The effect is imperceptible at first, but, with all of Mingyu’s attention dedicated to the person before him, it’s like seeing a flicker of fire in darkness. Wonwoo’s lax gaze tenses, darts across Mingyu’s face. It settles downwards. It pauses. Then it goes up, straight into the wide-open windows to Mingyu’s soul.

Mingyu wonders if, somehow, his face is baring it all. He wonders if he wants it to.

“You’ve got such a good head on your shoulders,” Wonwoo finally says. “I’m kind of jealous.”

When Wonwoo breaks into a smile, Mingyu wonders why it looks so sad.

“I’d be careful if I were you.” Wonwoo swivels out of his seat, ruffles Mingyu’s hair, then heads off to the door where his bag is slumped against the frame. “Selfish people are some of the most dangerous ones.”

“Hyung—”

“Lock the door before you leave. Don’t wanna get nagged on for unsafe work practices.”

Like the other items in Wonwoo’s specific roster of talents, he has a skill for leaving, traceless. If not for the chronic, terminal ache of absence in Mingyu’s chest, there would be no way of knowing Wonwoo was there in the first place.

Mingyu purses his lips. They feel dry.

A recent story from Wonwoo:

Once, there was a man who had a penchant for bird watching.

He memorized each bird’s call, could play every field and forest by ear. Experts say this is the best way to recognize the birds, especially from afar.

He learned migration patterns, recognized the sounds of group formations and could identify the species from description. He didn’t need to see the bird to watch it.

One day, the man encountered a bird he’d never learned about. Its trills were euphoric, the bleat of its feathers an otherworldly kind of strong. For the first time, the man wondered what such a magnificent bird could possibly look like. He’d never encounter the bird again, but sometimes he believed he’d hear it, calling him.

This man, who had a penchant for bird watching, was blind.

“You’re either blind,” Minseo sighs over the phone, “Or stupid AF. Only one of those is right.”

“Actually,” Mingyu tries to say, “I’ve started using reading glasses lately and they’re _amazing_—”

Yes, Mingyu panicked. Yes, his little sister is his contingency plan. No, he’s not a masochist.

Fun fact: back in ye olden days, Wonwoo used to babysit Minseo on the rare occasions Mingyu’s weekend tournaments coincided with their parents’ business trips, forcing Wonwoo and Minseo to grow an unlikely friendship out of punk rock, strawberry-flavored shaved ice, and stray cats.

Minseo was born an overly-observant kid who grew into her dad’s smart-aleck shoes, so Mingyu only ever consults her for emergencies. This is one of them.

“If what you told me is even ten percent true,” Minseo says, sounding bored to death, “Then there’s a more-than-not chance that you could’ve made out with Wonwoo in a dark, unoccupied club room that also happens to have a sex couch.”

“Please don’t call it that.”

“I stan a sex couch queen.”

“You’re a fiend of a child,” Mingyu groans even though his sister is a 21st century high schooler who breathes Internet forum speak and deep web lore. She’s seen far worse. “I would’ve been out of line and in the wrong if it did.”

“Dude, would Wonwoo tolerate you as much without that face? You’ve got a better chance than you think.”

“Get a boyfriend.”

“You’re one to talk, but go off, sis.”

“Please give me actual advice before I hang up.”

“Fine, fine. And I thought puberty made _me_ touchy.” Her sigh is both exasperated and devilishly entertained. Mingyu hates (loves) her. “You and I know that Wonwoo hardly does anything without reason, so the problem isn’t that he’s incapable of liking you. I think the problem is that he’s not the type to willingly act on what he wants.”

“And he wants…me,” Mingyu says so dryly a salt lick would be jealous.

“You got receipts saying otherwise?”

“Guess not.”

“Does he leave you on read?”

“No? But he might feel obligated to reply—”

“Does he look like he has fun around you?” Minseo asks.

“I,” Mingyu pauses, unsure of how to answer.

“Does he look like he has fun around you?” Minseo repeats, but slower like Mingyu needed it said that way.

Okay, he acknowledges that he’s not the sharpest crayon in the shed, but he’d be stupid (to Minseo’s credit) to think that Wonwoo has been faking it for this long. Wonwoo is entirely capable of artifice when it’s needed, but not of endurance for the upkeep.

“I think he does,” Mingyu finally answers, “Have fun around me. At least sometimes.”

“Maybe even more,” Minseo says. “Unlike some of us—us being you—Wonwoo isn’t unaware, just slow. Took him ages to realize that Mom and Dad always left enough food for us _plus one_ even though I told Wonwoo, like, a gazillion times that he has his own share. I think he needs time to convince himself that he _is_ having fun, that it’s _fine_ having fun, and that it’s fine having fun around _you_.”

“Yeah, you’re probably—hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” oh, here we go, “You think your actions are with good intentions when, in reality, those actions are inextricable from ulterior motives you’ve harbored in such a way that probably echoes symptoms of unhealthy obsession or unresolved attachment issues that need to be processed as either reflex or actually genuine. Also, you’re only consistently charming when you’re motivated enough.”

Minseo would make a killer lawyer if she bothered opening up a book.

“If it took Joshua Hong his and Wonwoo’s entire childhoods just to hit The Friend Zone,” Minseo says, absolutely exhausted, “Then take a number and hit the queue, sis.”

“It’s been _so long_,” Mingyu whines. “There’s no way that’s how Wonwoo approaches all his relationships.”

“Wow, the concept of One Size Fits All is a myth? I’m shook.” Mingyu can _feel_ Minseo rolling her eyes. “If it helps your ego, maybe you’re special or whatever and he doesn’t want to mess things up right now. Compared to how long you two’ve been apart, the semester’s, like, barely started. Chill.”

“You’re right.”

“I am.” She is. “Are we done?”

“I’ll try to be more patient,” Mingyu submits. “Thanks, sis.”

“No prob, sis.”

“Wait, I’ve been meaning to ask. Why do you call me—”

And she hangs up. Teenagers.

**mingupingu**  
YOOOOOO it looks so GOOD!!!  
we did so GOOD!! even if we only got one in the actual paper lol  
club dinner to celebrate this weekend!!!  
u goin??

**wonline**  
Wasnt planning on it tbh  
Never really liked the dinners  
Bad memories

**mingupingu**  
aw cmon :((( lets go lets go!  
we worked so hard!!!  
also FREE FOOD

**wonline**  
Ugh fine  
Now I have to think about what to wear

**mingupingu**  
u literally look fine in anything  
just show up ok?  
u better promise

**wonline**  
Fine fine get off my back  
Will be there

**mingupingu**  
yay!! see u ther

**wonline**  
>:P

**mingupingu**  
😚

Twenty-five articles, four graphic designers on the brink of death, and an Editor-in-Chief who is probably (definitely) dead later, this semester’s full issue of The Spoon is finally published. The quality is incredible. Millennials eat it up like overpriced avocado toast in LA. The success is so undeniable to both the team and the restaurants featured that it calls for another meaty, boozy, nasty feast to revive Jihoon.

This time, Wonwoo willingly shows up on time. He argues it’s because he’d rather be there than deal with his wreck of a senior design project team. Heewon can handle it. Probably.

“If you really meant it,” Soonyoung says, dopy grin colored with a few or several sips of beer, “you wouldn’t’ve come here all dressed up like that.”

Wonwoo kicks him under the table as unsubtly as humanly possible. Mingyu does his best not to laugh at Soonyoung’s dramatics. He should bring Seokmin sometime—ah, with Soonyoung around? Maybe not. That would be a disaster.

The atmosphere is already intoxicating. Sounds of mixed laughter and clinking glass are the loudest, and after that the woes of office workers dreaming of marriage. There are squeals of high schoolers at idols who sleep less than they do, and then the raucous calls for one, two, three more of something.

“You’re not eating,” Wonwoo says. His cheeks are flushed a warm peach, like an ink stain. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says, “Just thinking.”

“Thinking? On a Friday night? Sounds dangerous.”

“The only danger here is everyone’s blood alcohol limits. Pass the pork belly?”

“Have your arms and legs stopped working?”

“Alcohol makes you meaner.”

“Alcohol makes me more honest.”

Mingyu laughs again. He feels a little lightheaded, and it’s not just the atmosphere.

The air is hefty with the smoke of meat and roasting vegetables. Faces ripple from the heat of the grills. The stone floor is cold beneath Mingyu’s worn-out converse. It feels like a spiced grease sauna.

And Jihoon’s voice, like a glass bell, violently cuts through the fog.

“Yah, is that Choi fuckin’ Seungcheol!”

The group table erupts at the name like a crowd in a world sports arena. Hoots of excitement and teasing whistles fill the scarce empty space in the restaurant.

“Oi, oi, what’s with all the ruckus? It’s just me.”

That placid, almost amused response doesn’t at all reflect the handsome guy behind it.

He isn’t tall, but he’s anything but small. Leather-clad model-face, biker vibes with a charming, gummy smile. At one angle, his hair is as dark as soil. In another, it’s the color of coffee with a touch of creamer. This guy radiates aplomb, the kind unadulterated by conceit and warm with generosity.

This is the type of guy who would introduce himself to you first, then shake your hand while complimenting your shirt, all the while making you fall for him without ever intending it.

He looks like a heartbreaker.

Not that Mingyu is being dramatic or anything! Watch enough Asian dramas and you start thinking shit like that. Anyway, there’s another person, too, but Mingyu doesn’t notice them. Not with the way Wonwoo is looking at Seungcheol like, like he’s—

“Hyung,” Wonwoo says, standing up abruptly. The noises quiet, but do not cease. “What are you doing here?”

“Someone’s happy to see me,” Seungcheol chuckles. His smile softens in an almost practiced, or maybe instinctual way. “Jihoon texted. I happened to be in the area.”

“Is that so? Welcome back, then.”

“It’s good to see you.”

“Same.”

The awkward silence that follows would’ve been hilarious if Mingyu found it remotely funny. Someone coughs.

“Wonwoo, sugar plum, baby cakes,” Seungcheol’s companion coos, somehow both sarcastic and affectionate, “Not gonna greet me?”

Wonwoo smirks. “I hate your nicknames, Jeonghan.”

“Bring it in. You know you wanna.”

“Do I look like I’m asking for hugs?”

“With that glare? Always. Now c’mere, you sour patch kid.”

Seungcheol’s friend, who bears a delicate beauty that totally belies the acuity of his words, steps aside to drag Wonwoo’s unwilling body into his arms. They embrace. Seungcheol chuckles. Mingyu doesn’t know where to put his eyes.

“Fucking sunbaes, thinking they have all the power in the world,” Wonwoo says as he pats Jeonghan’s back. “This is abuse of power.”

“Nah, it’s just a ‘me’ thing,” Jeonghan says. “Seungcheol’s too cowardly to do anything like that.”

Wonwoo sighs in defeat. Then he looks at Seungcheol and manages a smile. “Do I have to hug you too?”

Seungcheol smiles back, perfectly cordial. “Only if you want to.”

With another round of meat, the restaurant bustle begins to resurface. Mingyu can hear it rise like white noise from a vintage television, washing over him. It makes unnoticeable everything else except, somehow, the way Wonwoo lets Seungcheol curl around him with a trepidation that forces Mingyu to wonder why those two are so careful in the first place.

“It’s good to see Seungcheol again,” Jun says, dropping into the now-empty seat beside Mingyu.

Several old and new friends pass by to greet Seungcheol, but he, Jeonghan, and Wonwoo stay right where they are.

“He looks like he’d be a popular guy,” Mingyu says.

Jun nods. “He was Editor-in-Chief before Jihoon. Super chill and fun dude. Now he’s working at some travel agency, taking photos and instagramming for a living. What an asshole, living the dream. I missed him.”

“I’m…confused?”

“That’s normal around him.”

“Was he— did he— how does he know Wonwoo?” Mingyu quickly backtracks, “Not just him in particular! Jeonghan, too, I guess? The journal? That was a thing last year, right? Never mind, stupid question. Or questions. Ha! Ha. Ignore me.”

“Oh, well, Jeonghan’s from a nearby university. He did part-time at a coffee shop Seungcheol liked, though Jeonghan got into a scuffle with Wonwoo over something that was probably stupid. Anyway, they sort of made up? Jeonghan gave him an iced tea with ‘sorry for almost punching you in the dick, but your fashion taste still sucks’ written on it and Wonwoo ‘accidentally’ spilled the drink on him and then—”

“What about Seungcheol?”

“Oh. You mean him and Wonwoo?”

“I, uh, yeah.”

They both look back at the trio, which is a mistake because it’s just an entirely different world over there. Jeonghan’s hand is on Seungcheol’s shoulder, and Seungcheol gives Wonwoo’s face a good squeeze; he feigns disappointment, as if Wonwoo had gotten thinner from the last time they saw each other. Even Wonwoo, who practices approachability at a distance, appears…relaxed, loosened in a way alcohol can’t achieve.

He looks comfortable.

“Wonwoo and Seungcheol, uh, dated,” Jun says awkwardly. “Back when Wonwoo was a freshman.”

And as one problem arises, another one begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one:  
Me: These are the photos of Mingyu ([1](https://i.pinimg.com/474x/96/ba/86/96ba86acfda051265ead45f701b4b378.jpg), [2](https://a.wattpad.com/cover/95727012-352-k406201.jpg), his entire IG) & Wonwoo ([1](https://66.media.tumblr.com/8a78f92e44327eba5f2c508356b0992d/tumblr_inline_poldp2b3fm1vq766j_540.gif), [2](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/ChNFzrtUUAAx3gK.jpg), [3](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/fe/b6/e2/feb6e246ff10ffc171030d89f604024c.jpg)) I reference the most while writing this! Is this an excuse to gather “reference material”? Definitely.


	3. dumplings & rice porridge

“Wonwoo,” Mingyu says, stunned, “Dated?”

“Yup,” Jun says, nodding.

“A lot?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Nah, I’m just kidding!” Jun laughs. Mingyu doesn’t. “Wonwoo’s not that kinda guy. There were some hook-ups back in the day—that’s just campus culture—but Seungcheol was more of an accident? With feelings? They broke up when Seungcheol went abroad the next semester. Got back together. Broke it off again. It was all over the place.”

Mingyu stares, even more stunned.

“Nothing to worry ‘bout, my friend,” Jun continues, hooking an arm around Mingyu. “The Great Choi Seungcheol is officially off the market, and it’s not because of Wonwoo—at least, not anymore.”

“Ah,” Mingyu nods, “I see.”

“Which means that—”

“Jun to the Hui! My man, my favoritest, stringiest noodle dude. And, oh, who do we have here?”

Mingyu looks up to see that Jeonghan has sashayed into their end of the restaurant. His skin looks even more poreless this close up, as expected of an alien. Not like pre-college Minghao, but an actual extraterrestrial.

“This is Mingyu,” Wonwoo says from behind Jeonghan. “He’s a freshman editor.”

Like fortress gates to the trumpets of war, Jeonghan’s eyebrows raise. Slowly. Wonwoo’s face immediately tenses. Mingyu doesn’t want to be here.

“Huh, that’s weird,” Jeonghan says. “I don’t think I asked _you_ that question, Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo’s lips twitch. “Does it matter if I did? I literally just answered your question.”

“You answered before Jun could.”

“Astute observation. Are you going to tell me I’m breathing oxygen?”

“_I_ wouldn’t if I were around _this _guy as often as you must be,” Jeonghan says, dropping himself onto Mingyu’s lap and _oh_ the squeal that escapes the depths of Mingyu’s throat. Mingyu’s limbs have effectively turned into ooze, but Jeonghan certainly has no problem draping his arms over Mingyu’s quivering shoulders. He smells vaguely of pomegranate soju.

If there wasn’t an intense ringing in Mingyu’s ears warning him of a potential aneurysm, he might have noticed the sudden and scandalized “Jeonghan!” Wonwoo near-shouts.

“Mingyu, huh?” Jeonghan’s nose, his eyes, his _face_ _is_ _so close oh god._ “What d’you do?”

“U-Uh, I’m m-majoring in—”

“Guys? Girls? Both? Neither? Something in between?”

Mingyu might actually faint right now. “U-U-Um, um, uh—”

“With those shoes and that hairstyle, I’d say you have good taste regardless. Talking could use a little work, but I can appreciate a virgin stutter. Are you busy next week? How about we—”

“What the fuck is happening,” Jun wheezes.

Like the real man of the hour, Seungcheol jumps in to haul Jeonghan up and away with such little effort that Mingyu almost _(almost)_ forgets about the unrequited rivalry that’s definitely between himself and Wonwoo’s ex.

“That was extremely inappropriate,” Seungcheol scolds and, whoa, that’s a stern face. Like, hella stern. Like, Mingyu actually flinches in reflex remembering his hagwon teacher from high school, and that dude could make Stephen King shit himself.

Jeonghan appears perfectly disinterested. “What’re you gonna do?” he says, “Punish me?”

Seungcheol may or may not growl in frustration. “I swear to god, Jeonghan, we are _not_ doing this here.”

“Then where? At home?”

_“What the fuck is happening,”_ Jun wheezes again from further and furtherer away.

“That’s it, we’re leaving.” Seungcheol quickly turns around to the crowd and switches to apologetic and handsome with incredible speed. “Sorry guys, gonna have to cut my visit short. We were at a karaoke before this and Jeonghan here might’ve drunk too much. It was nice seeing you all! Eat the club budget dry and make Jihoon worry about it all semester!”

When Seungcheol grabs Jeonghan by the wrist and drags him away, the smile Jeonghan sends is wicked and wild as he blows a kiss to the crowd. He winks at Mingyu, who quakes in fear—as he should. Prince Hans? Nah, Jeonghan is the real Disney prince-villain of the century.

Right before leaving, Seungcheol hugs a hand to Wonwoo’s shoulder, pulls him close, and whispers. Smiles. Rustles Wonwoo’s hair and chuckles something before he finally takes his leave.

It’s close. It’s intimate. It’s nothing like Jeonghan’s artificial flirtations from before; the goal for that was purely provocation. This is definitely not that.

Wonwoo is staring at the door and nothing else, no matter how many times Mingyu tries to think of any alternatives since there is literally _nothing_ else of interest in that direction except maybe the signed photo of a C-list celebrity on the wall which, unless Wonwoo hits the Magic Rule of Threes and has history with that guy, too, probably wouldn’t make him look so distraught.

No, it’s not C-list guy. Mingyu’s not dumb enough to think that _that look _is because of anything else but the spectacle that just sauntered out.

Against his will, Mingyu takes a proper look at Wonwoo’s face—

Stark against the bubbling half-drunk chaos around them, Wonwoo’s mouth is cemented into a hard line, as if someone had entirely erased his lips and pencilled in a dark, graphic streak in their place. It’d look funny, actually, if not for the light-catching gleam in his eye that does nothing but draw attention to a damp sheen he’s doing a good job of controlling.

Mingyu realizes that he has never seen Wonwoo cry. It doesn’t happen tonight, but perhaps this is the closest Mingyu will come to witnessing it.

“Sunbae—” Mingyu starts.

“Hyung,” Wonwoo corrects reflexively.

“How about senpai?”

“I will smush my boot into your face.”

“That’s dirty.”

“So is calling me senpai. What’s up?”

“You’re always around weird people. Is that by choice or circumstance?”

Wonwoo—thank the stars—lets out a soft, tired “pft.” He slumps into Jun’s place beside Mingyu and, up close, his face is still flushed that same pretty peach as when the night began.

“Yes,” Wonwoo says.

Out of the blue, he takes the nearest soju bottle and pulls a swig back, maybe two or three, like a champ. Or an alcoholic. Jury is out on that one.

After that, Wonwoo asks, “Are you okay?”

“I should be asking you that,” Mingyu counters.

“I wasn’t sat on without my consent.”

“I’m fine. Jeonghan, right? He wasn’t heavy or anything.”

“What I meant to ask was: are you _okay _okay?”

Wonwoo’s eyes have dried as quickly as they wet, as expected of an expert in emotional camouflage. But they still look sad, the worn-out kind you’d see in people who’ve seen the same sad thing a million times.

The background noise finally returns to the crest of where it was before, as if everything that happened now was just a fever dream.

“I’m fine,” Mingyu says after a moment. “Really.”

“Really really?”

“Really really really...really. Like the song? Never mind. How about you?”

“Could be better.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“I could use another shot.”

“Mm,” Mingyu pretends to mull over it before snatching the soju bottle from Wonwoo’s hand. “I don’t think so.”

Wonwoo groans. He’s so out of it that he makes grabby hands for what Mingyu rudely stole instead of snatching any other near-full bottle close by. Hell, he could even ask the auntie for another since the club budget is spread eagle tonight. Childish Wonwoo hasn’t resurfaced since, well, he was a kid, and Mingyu can’t help but find this intoxicated rendition a _little _fun to tease.

“Please don’t pull Sober Mom Friend on me right now,” Wonwoo whines, dangerously close to a pout. “I’d appreciate it all other times except right now. I can still think straight.”

“Can you?”

“Kinda.” Wonwoo hiccups. “Kinda not.”

“That’s what I thought,” Mingyu says. He stands up and lifts Wonwoo to carry him on one shoulder. “C’mon, let’s find Jun.”

“And I thought I made bad decisions tonight.”

“For what it’s worth, Jun didn’t drink. Minghao bet him that he couldn’t go vegan for a day—coincidentally or not, that day being today.”

“That’s a bastard you wanna get behind. He’ll rule the world one day.”

Mingyu laughs to hide how hard he’s trying not to get too lightheaded from the warmth rolling off of Wonwoo’s alcohol-riddled body. Mingyu’s coat smells like spices and grill smoke and, now, the leftovers of Wonwoo’s stubborn cologne. It changed recently.

“Hey,” Wonwoo says.

“Hey,” Mingyu reflects even though he wants to say, Where the fuck is Jun? Did he disappear into the shadows? Tips please?

“Why don’t,” Wonwoo says, head lolling forward, then up onto Mingyu’s shoulder. He hiccups again. “Why don’t you take me home?”

It was then Mingyu knew God was real. There’s no other way he could’ve kept his legs up straight.

Wonwoo is drunk, Mingyu tells himself. Wonwoo is confused and drunk and really needs to sleep right now. If the words ain’t sober, chief, then they ain’t true.

“I-I don’t know your address,” Mingyu stutters. Texting one-handed is incredibly hard if one hand is…occupied, while the hand holding the phone is the embodiment of the last leaf on a dying tree (shaking—_badly_). “It’d be better if someone c-closer to you brought you home, you know?”

“Aren’t we close?”

“Ah, y-yes, but not like that.”

“Like what? We know each other’s class schedules. We hang out a shit ton. I know you have a system for picking peas out of your pasta, and you know the fish I’m allergic and not allergic to. When I was fourteen, I gave you the blue Nikes I got as a present but couldn't fit, and you lent me your Gameboy Advance every lunch period when we were kids. We grew up together. We were close before. What about now? What else do you want?”

Nope. That’s it. That’s the last of how much Mingyu can feasibly handle tonight without probably fainting on the spot. He has a decent endurance for bracing Wonwoo’s baseline affections, but he still has a weak heart, alright? Mingyu has been treading in The Danger Zone since that surprise lap attack. This? This is actually maybe kind of death.

Mingyu shoves aside his irrational fear of phone calls and emergency dials Jun’s number.

“Hey, Jun? Yeah, it’s me, Mingyu. I’m kind of, uh, I need help? Right now? Yes, _yes_, please, we’re still inside the restaurant, please come back—”

Mingyu can’t blame Jun. If his own pride ran on temporary veganism in a Korean barbecue restaurant topped with a sudden clusterfuck of dirty laundry that aired out nowhere, Mingyu would run away, too. That strategy has clearly worked wonders for him in the past.

“Remind me to invite you over,” Wonwoo says, words properly slurring together this time. “That’d be nice.”

Yeah, Mingyu thinks, imagines, suppresses (rinse, repeat). That would be nice.

And with that, efforts to lay the groundwork for the spring issue—research, reading, and a hell of a lot of emails and scary phone calls—would begin as normal. At least, that’s what Mingyu thought.

**mingupingu**  
hallo i just sent u the list!!  
just wanted to check if u gotit

**mingupingu**  
sent a couple articles  
lmk if u got them!

**mingupingu**  
hallo didnt see u last meeting  
u ok?  
i can finish whatevers left

Days pass, absent of any word from the Dark Lord of the Sixth Circle of Hell, though without context that seems like a good thing. The underworld is a busy institution that need not meddling with.

Mingyu knows that Wonwoo has always been good at this: offering slack again and again in tasteful amounts until it becomes something to anticipate. Then, when a Pavlov dog has been made of someone, he yanks away any real closure of distance. It was like this when they were younger.

Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, in retrospect, but Mingyu thought he’d long since passed that barrier by the second year of middle school, when the lock of their social microcosm tightened tenfold. He watched from the sidelines with an ignorant sort of pride whenever anyone new tried and failed in befriending Wonwoo. Mingyu’s grown out of that, for the most part.

To stand at the other side of this habit again makes Mingyu feel like he’s back to the staircase—so close, yet still so far away.

“I think the first deadline for his senior design project is coming up soon, so I haven’t seen him much lately, either,” Soonyoung tells Mingyu after a club meeting. “He still texts me once in a blue moon, if I send him a particular good meme or something. Which _memes_ he’s alive! Get it? No? Well, I wouldn't be surprised if he actually died and his ghost, like, possessed his phone to text me. Or possessed _me_ to think _I _was texted_ oh my god—”_

“Could you give this to him or, uh, his ghost?” Mingyu hands over a hefty plastic bag. “I stress-made dumplings the other day and went a bit overboard, so there's some for you, Jun, and Jihoon, too.”

Mingyu is grateful to Soonyoung for not pressing the issue further, or at least further than a robust “Thanks for the dumps! Oh, wait.”

The not-dates Mingyu lapped up have evaporated into outings on his own or with the occasional temporary partner. But the food doesn’t taste as good as before.

The feeling of missing Wonwoo all over again, the physical aching and lethargy and longing symptomatic of it, is a whirlwind of whiplash. But, it's different now, Mingyu tells himself. He’s a Functioning Adult, for god’s sakes, with adult responsibilities and a minimum level of maturity he needs to meet as a god damn member of society.

Mingyu can’t be this beholden to what he wants out of someone else this much. He’s gotta suck it up and respect the fuck out of Wonwoo’s space, because _that's_ what a grown-ass adult person—which is what Kim Mingyu is—would do.

(Wonwoo was right. Selfish people really are dangerous.)

**wonline  
** Hey  
Sorry  
Sick  
Jun says thanks for the dumps  
He ate all of them  
Don’t trust Soonyoung next time  
Will update when functional

Mingyu didn’t choose to be a compulsive liar. It happens, okay?

He probably shouldn’t be doing this. This is crossing a line he shouldn’t be crossing. Quite literally, actually. There’s a clear distinction between the wooden entrance of the apartment and the concrete hallway Mingyu is standing in. But—

“Why are you here. Did Soonyoung put you up to this?”

—Mingyu’s old enough to scrap the whole passivity thing. Hopefully he's also old enough to accept getting the shit beat out of him if this doesn't work out.

When he offers a half-dead Wonwoo a sheepish smile (only to be met by a gurgling cough), he wonders: Is this a step forward a product of simple goodwill? Or continued irrational infatuation? Probably both. Definitely both.

“You didn’t get any dumps,” Mingyu says, holding up a lunch box.

Wonwoo’s eyebrows pinch together.

“Dumplings,” Mingyu clarifies. “I also brought porridge if you’d prefer—”

“I got it.” Wonwoo already has the skin of paper, but it looks less ready-for-glossy-print and more paper maché by an elementary school child. He takes the bag from Mingyu, extends a quiet, curt, “Thanks,” before promptly shutting the door.

A few seconds pass. Mingyu knocks again.

“I have anthrax,” Wonwoo calls from behind the partition. Not too far behind it, Mingyu guesses. “Or some other airborne disease that is yet to be discovered.”

“You opened the door earlier.”

“Transmission specifically requires at least two face-to-face interactions.”

Mingyu realizes that he never heard the door lock.

“We can be test subjects together, then,” Mingyu says as he lets himself in with little trouble. Wonwoo, hunched over in house clothes and a blanket, looks more exhausted than resistant. “I need the bag when you’re done anyway. It was a present.”

Wonwoo scrutinizes the neon yellow and forest green atrocity in his hands. “Who in the right mind—”

“It’s from my sister.”

“Gucci who?”

Mingyu offers a chuckle. “Show me where the kitchen is? I’ll set things up.”

Wonwoo’s hesitation typically manifests first and only in his eyes, like a good-natured leopard wavering over the waning vitality of its prey. This time, it spreads to his whole body. The tenseness is so strong it pulls his tired hunch straighter.

“This is what you get for drinking too much, overworking yourself, _and_ not dressing properly. It’s winter now, you know? You need to stop shopping vintage. Go back to bed,” Mingyu fires off as he takes a quick survey of Wonwoo’s minimal kitchen setup. “I’ll bring the food to you when I’ve reheated it.”

Wonwoo grunts and slips out of the living room. Scarily quiet, as usual.

Despite Wonwoo’s predilection for enjoying thrillers and horror movies like a madman, and despite being the newest poster child for vitamin C ads and Robitussin, Wonwoo’s bachelor pad is remarkably tidy.

Clean dishes are stacked neatly in the cupboard over the stovetop, which itself is miraculously not encrusted with unidentifiable substances. The minimal decorations of family photos, bright coffee table books, and healthy plants break up the neutral monotony of everything else. Even the couch in the adjoining living room has a funky knitted blanket folded over one of the arms.

It’s honestly godsend that Mingyu doesn’t have to dig through an avalanche to find a bowl and spoon that probably won’t give a person mono.

“Grunt once if you’re alive, twice if you’re dead,” Mingyu calls from outside the bedroom.

There’s no sound, which is closer to one grunt than two, so, by that logic, Mingyu lets himself in _aaand_ immediately swaps Wonwoo’s laptop for a tray of steaming rice porridge.

“I was in the middle of something.” Wonwoo’s voice sounds like it had a fight with a paper shredder and lost. “Need to review code for project.”

“You haven't eaten yet.”

“Give.”

“Not until you eat.”

“Are you my mom?”

“When do you need the code sent by?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Night?”

“Yes.”

“Then it can wait until you eat something warm and get a good night’s sleep.”

“Mingyu, I swear to god—”

In an act of both defiance and dumb obstinacy, Mingyu plants his ass into Wonwoo’s chair. What do you expect? He’s a Year of the Ox baby and closet _Les Misérables _fan, so that “stick it to the man” _vive le révolucion _schtick is instinct at this point.

“I brought green onions and boiled chicken,” Mingyu says, “but I wasn't sure if you could stomach them.”

Wonwoo squints at the bowl in front of him like it just called him something rude.

“Should I get some soy sauce?” Mingyu asks.

“When’d you learn how to cook?”

“I’ve always liked cooking.”

“Instant ramen with frozen tonkotsu and fake cheese after cram school wasn’t exactly cooking.” Wonwoo picks up the spoon. He coughs. “Was good. Just not cooking.”

“Then what counts as cooking, Mr. Webster?”

“To ill for philosophy.”

“Ah yes, the great philosophical doctrines of Pla-toast and Aris…toast-le. A-rice-totle? Hey, thats pretty good actually! Go me.”

“Did you just applaud yourself?”

“It’s self-care.”

Wonwoo snorts in disbelief before daring to take the teensiest, tiniest sip of porridge. His face doesn't scrunch with involuntary regurgitation, which is great.

“Good?” Mingyu inquires.

“Good,” Wonwoo says, going in for a proper spoonful.

These weren't exactly the circumstances Mingyu imagined he’d be in when visiting Wonwoo’s place for the first time, but he’s still glad he’s here. He prefers the Wonwoo that can snark Soonyoung to insanity with little to no effort, but something about the quiet sniffles and squinty eyes makes Wonwoo particularly cute.

As Mingyu looks around, he realizes that his bedroom is hardly different from the other rooms—bare with pockets of personality for charm.

Underneath nondescript blinds next to the bed, a familiar set of mecha figurines sits, gleaming and vivid with care. The alarm clock is some pretentious, Pollock-looking mess that suddenly looks significantly less pretentious with a plush keychain Moomin sitting on top. The desk is by far the most boring thing in the room, but it's still dressed up in books with interesting titles, Marvel pop figures and polaroids stuck to the wall.

One polaroid is of Wonwoo and Co. after a bowling party. Beside that, Jihoon is landing a serious smacker to Wonwoo’s cheek after one too many drinks, probably.

Another catches Mingyu’s eye: one of Wonwoo, Hansol, Joshua and, you guessed it, Mingyu way back when. Joshua’s arm is slung over a devastated Hansol while Wonwoo and Mingyu look absolutely thrilled behind them. It was right after Joshua absolutely steamrolled Hansol in Battleship, so Wonwoo _had_ to ask his mother to take a photo.

Mingyu can't help but smile.

“Feeling nostalgic?”

Mingyu flinches. “Sorry, I shouldn't be looking at everything so much.”

Wonwoo stares at him like he’d asked if diamonds were an element. “You barge into my apartment, coerce me into consuming food, and then apologize for looking around?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re really a Sim, aren’t you? Sent here by the chaotic hand of God to mess with the rest of us normies?”

“If this is your way of asking if I’m basically Jesus, then yes.”

“Ugh, that again? You’re actually the worst.”

“Can’t say that with my amazing porridge in your mouth—” Wonwoo gags this time, and Mingyu physically shrivels up, “I retract those words immediately. Not how speaking works, I know, but still. Retracted.” Mingyu waves his hand like a dollar store magician.

“You're done here,” Wonwoo declares after a solid chug of water. “You’re voted off the island. Please leave.”

“It’s the fan vote that really matters,” Mingyu contends, trying to recover. “And guess who’s a shoe-in for that? _This guy_, Korean Jesus.”

Mingyu winks (for some stupid reason). Wonwoo coughs again.

Mingyu is ready to just blather his way through to distract Wonwoo from that disastrous word choice earlier, but—oh, wait, has Wonwoo’s face always been that scarlet?

Mingyu can’t recall from when Wonwoo opened the door. With enough drinks, sure, Wonwoo glows like a lightbulb. But this doesn’t look right.

“Hey. Can I,” Mingyu scoots closer until he’s beside the edge of Wonwoo’s bed, instinct overcoming him, “Just need to check—”

Before his mouth gets a chance to finish, Mingyu’s hand has already moved to brush away Wonwoo’s fringe, exposing the damp heat of his forehead. Palms and fingers press against the reddened skin and, for a hysterical second, Mingyu remembers the day he got home to see Wonwoo, second time babysitting, smoothing a cool towel across a fevered Minseo’s forehead. Mingyu couldn’t stop thinking about it that night.

Perhaps Wonwoo would have jumped away if a steaming bowl of porridge wasn’t sitting on his lap, but there’s a definite, instinctual twitch that hits like a rubber band snap to Mingyu’s dumb brain.

“Please remove your hand from my forehead,” Wonwoo says.

“Roger,” Mingyu says as he does just that. “Sorry. I just, you looked…”

“Hot?”

Mingyu chokes on his own tongue. He deserved that.

“Sorry, it’s not you,” Wonwoo apologizes for no reason. “Not a huge fan of people touching my face. Zits. And stuff.”

A snapshot of Seungcheol pinching Wonwoo’s cheek—Wonwoo laughing in return, swatting the hand away with anything but malice—flashes in Mingyu’s mind.

“I left the dumplings in the freezer,” Mingyu says as he stands up. “There’s some extra porridge toppings in the fridge in some Tupperware. I’ve got lots of extras, so don’t worry about returning them. Try to get some sleep, okay?”

“I should say the same for you,” Wonwoo says, not the _Where are you going?_ or _Will you come back?_ Mingyu wishes like the self-projecting monster he is. “Hopefully the solo life isn’t too hard on you. I know you hate phone calls.”

Mingyu bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing maniacally and screaming in that order. Surely, that level of irony is intentional, though the soft, wary look on Wonwoo’s face says otherwise.

Just as Mingyu puts the chair back, he feels something warm and weighty grasp at his wrist, loosen, move to his hand, then it’s—

“Thanks for coming over,” Wonwoo says as quickly as he hides under his comforter. “But text me before you come over, idiot.”

The fake grin on Mingyu’s face melts into something genuine. Wonwoo is the type to throw fists with anyone who so much as looks at the dinner bill—of course he doesn’t do the asking. Minseo was right.

Instead, there’s an unsaid “next time” somewhere in there, sitting like a warm stone in the sand. That metaphor is literally unrelated to anything that happened, but Mingyu is giddy enough to think it feels just like that.

“I don’t want more Tupperware in my place than I need,” Wonwoo adds, muffled by the blanket.

Mingyu crumbles. “C’mon, senpai, we were having a moment!”

“I don’t want you leaving your shit here! Also, what the fuck? Stop calling me that!”

“I’m not the one with a ‘sunbae’ complex! And ex_cuse_ you, as if I was going to waste my good glassware on your ungrateful_ ass—”_

(“You’re terrible at this. Have you ever folded a towel? Have you ever _wet_ a towel? Besides after a shower, that is.”

“Take care of Minseo once and suddenly you think you’re a doctor. Unbelievable.”

“Oh yeah, where is she? Can she take care of me instead?”

Mingyu always bristled whenever Wonwoo brought up Minseo. Mingyu knew it was in jest because, well, at least Minseo made it abundantly clear that she had no interest in “real” boys, whatever that meant. She was in her anime phase. Mingyu was in a phase of his own. They couldn’t judge each other.

Coming here seemed like a good idea at first. Joshua invited Mingyu and Hansol to visit when Mrs. Hong was tipped off by Mrs. Jeon about Wonwoo being bedridden for first time in a while.

“Minseo’s still at school for club activities,” Mingyu mumbled. “Weaboo club or something.”

“You say that like you wouldn’t touch Blackfire’s boob if you got the chance.”

_“Teen Titans isn’t anime!”_

Wonwoo wasn't sick enough to stop his delirious teasing, apparently. Why did Joshua and Hansol abandon them like this? It wasn't like Mingyu could tag along to some random-ass Korean-American get-together dinner thing. What even is a bald eagle? An eagle that’s actually bald?

Worst of all, Mingyu _just_ figured out what his feelings for Wonwoo meant and now he’s stuck in Wonwoo’s stupid bedroom, alone, _with Wonwoo_. This was a nightmare.

“Your mom should be doing this. Or your dad. Are they still at work?”

“Yeah.” Wonwoo sighed. “Mom is scheduled for evening shifts this week and Dad’s doing overtime to pay for Bohyuk’s cast. This, I, was kind of…sudden.”

“Is Bohyuk around?”

“Still in crutches.”

“Want me to call my mom?”

“No thank you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I don’t want to bother.”

“I’m sure it won’t—”

“I’m fine. It’s fine. It’s just a cold. I’ll get over it.”

“Want me to stay?” Mingyu asked before rational thinking could kick in, “Until your mom or dad comes home? I-I can hang out and do my homework. Or something. It's not fun being alone when you're sick.”

For a while, Wonwoo was silent. Mingyu thought he’d said the stupidest thing in the world because _of course_ he would. Why would Wonwoo want his company? Like it’s something to want? Mingyu loves his mother to death, but she’s a coddler by nature so Mingyu only knows independence by observation, not practice. He can’t take care of another actual human being. This is bad, bad, _bad—_

“Sure,” Wonwoo said. “Sorry, dozed off for a sec, I think.”

Mingyu stopped himself from sighing like he’d narrowly missed a heart attack.

“Can you cook?” Wonwoo asked.

“Not for my life,” Mingyu answered.

“Takeout it is.” Wonwoo slapped his hand across his dresser until it landed on his phone. “Chinese. Feeling some fried dumplings. What d’you want?”

“Rice porridge. Uh, two servings. Please.”

“Rice porridge?”

Mingyu reached over to snatch the towel off Wonwoo’s face, wanted to make some snarky retort about how Wonwoo’s eating habits are as bad as his gaming right to his face but—oh, that startled look, those widened eyes, the atypical _softness_ in Wonwoo’s heat-flushed face in this moment throws Mingyu’s banter genius right out the window.

Mingyu had initially tossed this so-called crush up to something that would boil over eventually. Wonwoo is just thoughtful and fun to talk to, and Mingyu was overemphasizing how much he must like that.

This wasn’t that at all. _This_ was a major yikes.

“It’s ‘cause,” Mingyu said,“It’s ‘cause you’re sick. Porridge is good for that. Um, I’ll be right back. To change the water.”

As Mingyu almost tripped out the door in panic, he heard a loud cough behind him.

“Thanks,” Wonwoo called out. “For coming over.”)

“You dragged me here, why?”

“Because,” Mingyu reasons, “I need companionship.”

“So high maintenance,” Seokmin says sourly. “Now you’re going to tell me you need to drink lots of water and eat a balanced diet. Couldn’t you just, like, I don’t know, join a Reddit forum or Hopeless Romantics Anonymous group? Or Grindr?”

Mingyu drags his goggles over his head to glare.

“Okay, got it, not a dick pic guy. Might I recommend Neopets—”

All those nice, dry clothes on Seokmin makes the idea of yanking him into the pool by his bony ankles all the more tempting. It’s pretty empty tonight and Mingyu is good friends with the lifeguard on duty. It’ll be bloodless. Mingyu can hide the body before anyone notices.

“Oh no, that’s your hypothetical murder face,” Seokmin says, hesitantly holding out his hands.

“Bold of you to assume it’s hypothetical,” Mingyu replies, grabbing those hands to leverage his exit from the pool. A towel is thrown at his face. “Thanks for keeping me company. Smoothies on me?”

“I’m missing practice for this. You’re getting me a damn milkshake.”

“What about vegetables and expensive vitamin boosts?”

“Give me sugar or give me death!”

“You sure you don’t want to be quietly drowned in a community pool in the middle of the night and then dragged to the compost heap a few miles out of the city instead?”

“Wonwoo’s made you watch too much scary shit, bro.” Seokmin kicks him away. “Can you shower already? I want to get my liquid calories and go home. I don’t like being around so many…healthy people.”

Mingyu gets shoved again towards the showers before he has the chance to bite back. What a shame, just when the distraction was starting to balance his thoughts. Mingyu to himself and his own thoughts is dangerous.

But you know what’s even more dangerous? Running into Area 51’s boyfriend.

Seungcheol, if you were confused. Get it? Area 51 is supposed refer to Jeonghan, who Mingyu thought was basically an alien because— whatever, that was a bad analogy. Ignore it. He’s just trying to be relevant.

So yeah, Mingyu, by the gracious meddling of Lady Luck, finds himself alone in the pool locker room with none other than Mingyu’s current object of affection’s previous object of affection. The guy’s _ripped, _too. Now that’s just unfair. Is he also funny, smart, and financially-stable with a functional family life? And likes dogs? Mingyu gets that the gene pool slot machine is a thing, sure, but this is ridiculous.

“Oh, hey,” Seungcheol greets with the condensed charisma of Jeff Goldblum's entire filmography. “Mingyu, right?”

He who bears that name inclines his head. “Yup, that’s me. You were one of the visiting sunbaes from the other day. About to take a night swim, too?”

“They’re great for thinking, or just taking your mind off stuff,” Seungcheol agrees like the annoying kindred spirit he is.

Even though he’s definitely struggling with his locker, he’s still smiling. It’s endearing enough to convince Mingyu to help.

“Ah, thank you,” Seungcheol says. “It’s been a while since I’ve used these.”

“Oh yeah, Jun told me that you travel now? For a living?”

“Yeah! I’m back for a check-in with the travel company before I’m off next week. But it’s not as glamorous as it sounds! Especially with English as terrible as mine.”

“Not bad enough to get you fired,” Mingyu says without thinking. Then he actually fucking thinks. “Shit, uh, that’s not what I meant. I mean, I— that’s—”

With only silence as a soundboard, Mingyu bows as deeply as he can because what else can he do?

“I’m _so_, so sorry,” he says desperately. “That was such a terrible, awful, disrespectful and _very_ stupid thing for me to say. Please don’t kill me, or at least wait until after this Friday. Also not the face. My mom will cry.”

“What’s on Friday?”

“I have an exam. It's like forty percent of my course grade.”

At first, Seungcheol just looks at him. Openly, maybe without blinking. He has the eyes of both an Asian superstar and a complete psychopath, though Mingyu supposes, with adjunct horror, they aren’t mutually exclusive.

Then the guy _laughs_. He laughs a laugh that is so full-bodied and from the deepest part of his chest that it bounces off the tiled walls with a Round Two echo, and that’s not even Seungcheol’s fault. That’s just the environment telling Mingyu that he’s a grade A idiot.

“Good luck on that! And don’t worry,” Seungcheol says through the residual huffs. “I’ve heard far worse from Jihoon. We used to hate each other, you know? His work ethic wasn’t exactly…compatible with mine. I think we only started getting along when I was about to graduate.”

Mingyu nearly slaps his mouth to stop “I can imagine” from coming out.

“Besides,” Seungcheol says, closing his locker. “You can call us even now after what Jeonghan did the other day. So sorry about that.”

Okay, at this point, Mingyu feels like a straight-up asshole. No wonder he’s had no luck with Wonwoo. His track record with types is just too good.

“N-No problem,” Mingyu finally manages. “Before you go, would it be okay if I asked you a question?”

“Is it about Wonwoo?”

“No! I mean, no.” Mingyu clears his throat. “It’s about you, actually. Are you and Jeonghan…?”

If Seungcheol’s laugh is all chest, then his smile is all face. That smile, Mingyu has seen something like that before—on himself, in photos with his family, or with the god himself Jung Yunho in the airport and Mingyu almost passed out from sheer fanboy shock.

Or, he thinks vaguely, in photos with Wonwoo.

“Good luck!” Seungcheol says over his shoulder, throws over a wink for good measure. “If you need it, that is!”

Good lord, that guy is just too nice. How does Wonwoo magically end up with the five percept of nice guys who are actually nice? Mingyu doesn't know who to be envious of. All he knows is that he is most certainly fucked for Behavioral Economics this Friday and he needs all the encouragement—

Wait, did Seungcheol say good luck twice?

**thatlostseok  
** ARE YOU DONE YET  
MINGYUUUU  
MINGYUUUUUUUUUUUUUU  
THATSIT IM LEAVING W OUT YOU**  
**Actually gonna grab the milkshake first THEN IM LEAVING YOUR SORRY ASS

**mingupingu**  
soRRY SORRY caught up w a sunbae  
couldnt escape tillnow

**thatlostseok  
** Or maybe you didn't want to??  
Who am I kidding WW doesn't swim lololol

**mingupingu  
** nah i was talkin to his ex**  
** ill be out in a bit**  
**gotta take a piss first

**thatlostseok  
** Copy that  
WAIT WHAGT

(The first time Wonwoo watched a swimming competition, Mingyu had no idea he was in the crowd.

Wonwoo was never really a fan of sports-ball or striking goals or whatever, but Hansol and Joshua thought it would be fun to bring him to Mingyu’s qualifying tournament for the district bracket—all without telling Mingyu.

Ignorance really was bliss. Mingyu was already a couple weeks into the realization he liked Wonwoo as a friend but also maybe possibly more? The already-there nerves of being in his first tournament, if magnified by the wrath of young, potent infatuation, would have probably ripped Mingyu’s poor little soul apart and left him for dead on the towel racks.

He took home a bronze that day. He remembers crying on the podium.

The walk to the school bus was loudly intercepted by his sneaky friends, who showered him with incredulous “Congratulations! Congratulations!” and “Geez, dude, I didn't know you were so fast!” and “That was really cool. You were really cool.”

That last one wasn’t actually incredulous, or maybe it was, but easier-sounding, as if bombast wasn’t worth it when plain awe was so much simpler. It was all Mingyu needed to power through the rest of the swimming season.

Wonwoo’s smile was different that day. The curl to his eyes translated differently. Mingyu wondered for days if he’d ever see it again.)

Mingyu finishes scouting restaurants when he gets a text from Jihoon. Mingyu knows he’s watched some scary shit, but that actually spooks the hell out of him. Jihoon’s attention is the limited resource, thusly, _he_ is the message recipient, very rarely the other way around.

**Jihoon-sunbae  
** Are you free right now? Need your help with something.  
It’s nothing serious, just a small errand.

The weather is a dryish cold. Mingyu is wearing a trench coat and there are trousers on his legs. Others, too, don similarly insulating clothing and leg pants (as opposed to other kinds of pants, Mingyu realizes dumbly). Okay, not a time warp to April 1st. Mingyu is still mostly sane.

**mingupingu**  
sure thing  
where should i meet u?  
im headed back to campus if ur there

**Jihoon-sunbae  
**Starbucks on 40th.

And so He hath spoken, or texted, rather. It gets Mingyu fast-walking into a sweat the moment he almost rams into Jihoon at the newest of five other generic Starbuckses. (No, Mingyu’s not bitter at excessive commercial expansion, he’s just supportive of businesses that actually care about the quality of the caffeine people use to convince themselves overpriced tertiary education is a good idea.)

“Ah, my bad,” Mingyu apologizes, head inclined. “I tried to get here as fast as I could and rushed in without thinking! What do you need me to do?”

Jihoon stares at him like he’d said something outlandish. This seems to be a recurring theme.

“Have you always been a pushover? You’re in your twenties. Have some self-respect.”

“So you…don’t actually need me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Jihoon grabs an envelope from his bag and holds it out for Mingyu to take, which he does too diligently. “I need you to take this to Wonwoo’s place today. You’ve been there, right?”

There might be actual steam coming out of Mingyu’s ears. “I— how did— that’s— it’s not like—”

“Keep your pants on, Fabio,” Mingyu does _not_ look down to check that his pants are still on, which they _are_, thank you, “These are handouts from his classes. I asked his classmates to get extra copies.”

Aw, it’s really nice to see Jihoon caring for Wonwoo.

“You go. I’ve got other shit to do today.”

The sentiment still stands.

“I don’t know if I can?” Mingyu says like it’s a question, but he quickly backtracks when Jihoon raises both his eyebrows. “I mean! I mean, um, he wasn’t exactly thrilled when I showed up last time. Unannounced.”

“Then announce.”

“Huh?”

“Text him, call him, tell him you’re heading over or whatever. It’s not rocket science.”

After Jihoon hitches his bag on his shoulder, he looks Mingyu in such a way that makes him seem infinitely larger and authoritative. Who the hell needs actual height when you can do that? Jihoon would definitely punch Mingyu’s kneecaps if he’d said that out loud.

“He doesn’t care as long as you let him know. He hates surprises. Anyway, I told him already.” Jihoon holds up his phone to show Mingyu the text messages. “He should be expecting you in fifteen minutes or so. If you forgot to read, he said don’t bother knocking. Door should be open.”

“That’s dangerous. What if someone breaks in?”

“Wonwoo knows how to use a knife. You ain’t slick, Prince Charming.”

“Oh. Alright.”

“Bye.”

“Oh! Yeah. Bye. Sorry. Bye. I said that already.”

“One more thing.” Jihoon turns around and _holy shit_ is that a fucking bow Jihoon gives him? It’s small, barely noticeable if you met Jihoon for the first time, but Mingyu sure as hell knows it and burns the sight onto his eyelids. “I owe you one. Thanks.”

Then he’s off. Huh. Wow. Is Mingyu still breathing? That was an out-of-body experience he didn’t expect to have today.

He glances down at the envelope in his hands—an actual, proper excuse to visit Wonwoo’s place—and feels like the cosmos has put him on a mission: to help Wonwoo get better.

What does that mean? Taking care of Wonwoo. What does that also mean? Breaking down barriers. What does that _also_ also mean? Breaking down the barriers behind those preliminary barriers. And then? Good shit. Hopefully.

Mingyu doesn’t have to try, does he? He just breathes and suddenly disaster strikes.

This was his epic Plan D (don’t ask about Plan A to C—and no, the letter choice is merely coincidence):

Get to Wonwoo’s place, hand over the papers, tease Jihoon behind his back, order from a decent mid-tier food delivery place, fix up the goods into something fancier, then pretend that it’s one of their fake dinner not-dates for not only the shits, but also the giggles. The two of them haven’t been on a not-date since the publishing of the fall issue. It's _perfect._

Until it's not. As usual.

Is it so hard for things to go according to plan? Wonwoo’s got all the luck in the world, and here Mingyu is, picking at scraps.

“Hey, cutie with a booty from the barbecue!”

Lo and behold, Jeonghan, of all sentient beings in this universe, is casually standing outside the apartment complex entrance with a cigarette between his fingers and impressive grin on his face. The way his fingers curl around his Cancer Stick looks eerily similar to Wonwoo’s hold.

“Here to take care of the BF?” Jeonghan asks, forcing a noise of some sort out of Mingyu. “Ooh, not there yet, then.”

“Hello sunbae,” Mingyu begrudgingly replies, bowing. “I’m here to give Wonwoo some handouts from the classes he’s missed.”

Jeonghan blows out some smoke, smiles, and says, “That’s hella cute. I’m sure Wonwoo’ll appreciate that. I wouldn’t go up just yet, though.”

“Why not?”

“He’s havin’ a little chat with Seungcheol.” Inhale, exhale. “We dropped by pretty randomly, I’ll admit. But if you’ve got the time, let’s chill out here for a little. Want one?”

Jeonghan holds out his cigarette box. It’s the same brand Wonwoo likes, but the flavor Wonwoo uses is more forgiving in bitterness.

Does Mingyu want to be here? Not really. Is he going to stay and chat with Jeonghan instead of chilling in the lobby to work on an essay due next week because Mingyu is both petty and nosy? Sounds about right.

“No thank you,” he says politely. “I don’t smoke.”

“Doesn’t Wonwoo smoke?”

“Just because he does it, doesn’t mean I’d do it.”

“Fair enough.”

“Did he start because of you?”

“His dad, actually. But we did start talking because of it. Which brands we preferred and stuff.”

“Ah, I see.”

It’s strange hearing Jeonghan speak so…not animatedly, like he doesn’t have a crowd to entertain or rally. The quickness in Jeonghan’s tonal transition is both masterful and reassuring of the normalcy somewhere beneath the extraterrestrial front.

“You guys hookin’ up or what?”

Mingyu never specified how much normalcy.

“N-No, we’re not,” Mingyu splutters. “We’re just sunbae and hoobae. Jihoon’s the one who told me to bring these papers.”

“Sad. I was hoping Wonwoo’d nabbed himself a boo while we were away.”

Despite the general panic surrounding his situation with Wonwoo, Mingyu is pretty proud to pin himself a happy-go-lucky guy who gives people the benefit of the doubt. But, right now, Mingyu is on the cusp between Kind of Annoyed and Maybe Pissed Off.

It’s understandable that Wonwoo still harbors old feelings for Seungcheol. How could Wonwoo not? The two obviously had a good relationship, one strong enough to still carry out comfortable conversations until now despite the seemingly tempestuous break-up.

You have an impressionable hoobae who admires and loves his cool-ass sunbae. You have a cool-ass sunbae who thinks his hoobae is the cutest thing in the world. Even after a split, the hoobae probably admires and loves that cool-ass sunbae all the same. He doesn’t want those feelings, but they’re stubborn and they’re there. How on earth can Mingyu feel anything but empathy? Jeonghan just doesn’t see that.

“It’s not like I don’t know what Seungcheol was to Wonwoo, or vice versa,” Jeonghan says then. “I’ve known Seungcheol too long to not. And before you say anything, I’m not a home-wrecker ‘cause that’s for shit stains. I _will_ admit to being a flirty drunk, but you already know that.”

Mingyu closes his mouth and lowers his I Have a Point to Make finger. That wasn’t the phrasing he was going to use, but he was in the right mind to mention something similar.

“I don’t know what Seungcheol told you the other day,” of course Jeonghan knows about that, “But I’d be surprised if he said anything about how much he really cares about Wonwoo. I keep telling him that it’s fine, I understand, it’s no big deal. There’s literally no shame in still enjoying being around the guy. Hell, Wonwoo and I had brunch, like, two weeks ago. I like him, too.”

Mingyu shifts his weight from one leg to the other. There’s another huff of smoke. It stormed very briefly on the way here, so the air smells like it’s smoldering with ash and lightning.

“Why are you telling me all this?” Mingyu settles on.

“You like Wonwoo, don’t you?”

“Wh-What? I didn’t, that’s not—”

“Oh, honey. Give me some credit.”

Mingyu knows his stupid crush on Wonwoo is obvious to most people by now, but you can’t blame him for blushing out his blood supply when something he’s said only a handful of times gets pried out with the bluntness of a sledgehammer.

“The two of them are just settling things upstairs. Trust me, they really need that.” Jeonghan lifts himself off the wall. “We’ll be out of your guys’ hair soon, so don’t worry yourself too much, Booty Call.”

Okay, Mingyu is definitely inflamed now, but in a very different way. “I told you, Jihoon asked me to—”

“Hey, I’m done— Mingyu?”

“Ah, hello.” Mingyu jerks a bow when Seungcheol appears.

Seungcheol mirrors this far more calmly. “Sorry, Wonwoo told me you were supposed to drop something off when Jeonghan and I showed up out of no where. Hopefully you didn’t wait too long?”

“Not at all.”

“That's good. I don’t think he’s had dinner yet, so maybe you could convince him to eat something. He never listens to me about that stuff.”

Seungcheol laughs a little, hand to the back of his neck. His expression is so warm that Mingyu can’t help but smile back. He wonders what could have possibly caused him and Wonwoo to ever break up.

“We’ll see you around,” Seungcheol says. He motions for Jeonghan to follow, which Jeonghan is happy to do with an arm around Seungcheol’s waist. “Oh, quick question: do you know what Wonwoo’s favorite food is?”

“Spicy rice cakes,” Mingyu answers without hesitation. “He usually says ramen, though, since that’s cheaper and more filling. Or chocolate, if he’s with someone who can afford the fancy ones.”

“You definitely know your stuff,” Seungcheol acknowledges. His arm is draped over Jeonghan’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine, mate.”

“And if you need the dirty details, let us know! We’ve got loads!” Jeonghan yells too loudly when he and Seungcheol are far enough to not see Mingyu nearly suffocates from the heart that jumps into his throat.

Wonwoo may be one of Jeonghan’s people, but Jeonghan is certainly not one of Mingyu’s. Seungcheol’s cool, though.

When they’re finally out of sight, Mingyu’s phone dings with a text:

**wonline**  
Hey are you downstairs?  
Sorry I couldn’t buzz you in  
I was in the middle of something

**mingupingu  
** thats ok!  
j chillin  
ill talk to the guard to call u

**wonline  
** Cool**  
** Sorry again  
What were you doing? Homework?

**mingupingu**  
something like that  
any dinner prefs? ill call

**wonline**  
You pick. You can order for yourself too

**mingupingu**  
gotchu fam  
b there in 5

When Mingyu finally arrives at Wonwoo’s doorstep, he’s relieved to see that Wonwoo looks vastly more alive. There’s a touch more color to his face now, bedhead brushed down, and he’s wearing proper casual attire instead of worn-down house clothes—not that he should feel obliged to in his own home, but Mingyu is just glad Wonwoo is looking more like himself.

Mingyu starts toeing off his shoes. “Food’ll be here soon. Ordered from that soup place we went to last month I think? The uncle gave us a discount for the good review.”

He can feel Wonwoo’s smile from afar. “That's really sweet of him. We should visit again so we can tip him in person. What’d you order?”

“Rice cake soup for you, ginseng chicken for me. Same as last time. Oh! I also have those handouts Jihoon wanted me to give you. Hold on a sec.”

Wonwoo steps out of the way to let Mingyu dash to his bag. “The dumplings were good, by the way.”

Mingyu visibly perks. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, better than takeout.”

“Want me to teach you? Teach a man how to fish and all that?”

“A warranted idiom that, alas, doesn't account for the fact that I'm lazy. And tired. And lazy.”

“You're efficient,” Mingyu amends. He walks over to Wonwoo, who’s stationed at the couch after clearing the coffee table. “Are you sure it's okay for me to eat dinner with you? I know you have a lot of stuff to do. I can just grab my share and go home—”

Wonwoo shushes him. Mingyu obliges.

Like magic, the doorbell rings. The look of awe on Mingyu’s face must be strong enough to make Wonwoo snicker because that’s exactly what happens.

“How did you know?” Mingyu whispers, hoping the ghosts don't hear, as he gets up again.

“Sixth sense,” Wonwoo says, winking. Is that payback for the other day? Doesn’t matter. Fuck. That's hot. “I just know some things.”

Mingyu wearily opens the door. “I bet you do.”

The last meeting of the semester gets hijacked into a Christmas celebration.

Old classics mixed with the newest kitschy K-pop holiday tunes are blasting from the main monitor. A circle of shameless dancing(?) takes up half the clubroom, the other half occupied with people who couldn’t care less about exerting more effort than they should if the meeting doesn’t call for it.

Wonwoo is on that end, obviously, so Mingyu followed suit, even if Twice has made several rounds through the playlist and Mingyu’s joints are yearning for the dance floor.

“Go forth, spread your dancer wings,” Wonwoo says from behind his face mask. He pushes on Mingyu’s seat with his foot. “Maybe you’ll impress Jun and get invited to join the Chinese dance team.”

“But I’m Korean?”

“So they’re gonna reject you just because of that? Not cool.”

“Uh, well, I wouldn’t blame them? Since the purpose of the team was to celebrate Chinese culture and create a sense of comfort and inclusivity for—”

Wonwoo is quick to shut him up with stronger kick, which, if Mingyu wasn’t as dense as he is, probably might have knocked the chair-with-Mingyu over. But even the slight change in vertigo is enough to get Mingyu screeching for his life and, in turn, Wonwoo laughing under his breath.

Even with the mask and glasses and hair to hide the dark circles and stress pimples, the twinkle in Wonwoo’s eyes is as untethered as ever. It still drives Mingyu crazy.

“Hey, Wonwoo, Mingyu. We need to talk.”

Perhaps Mingyu should’ve followed his dancer’s instinct because Jihoon suddenly pulls him and Wonwoo aside from the chaos. Stripped of the festive, materialistic joy, it feels like they’re about to get scolded.

“As of next semester, you SM rejects are breaking up,” Jihoon says.

In Mingyu’s defense, he thinks he’d better fit JYP’s image and _not_ because Twice is there but—

Wait. What?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Mingyu, my favorite walking disaster housewife who probably stress-cooks and cleans in his free time.


	4. eggnog & eggplants

Wonwoo steps closer to Jihoon. “Don’t fuck around just ‘cause it’s the holidays. What do you mean Mingyu and I are breaking up?”

“I mean _congrats_, chuckle duck, you’ve upgraded from single parenting to joint custody parenting,” Jihoon elaborates, unruffled, to Wonwoo, and then to Mingyu, “And congrats to you, kid, for no longer needing adult supervision. If you consider Mr. Cold and Aloof here an adult, that is.”

Mingyu has never heard Jihoon talk to Wonwoo like that. Wonwoo is definitely frowning behind his face mask.

“We need more hands on the managing deck for spring,” Jihoon states like he’s reporting the weather or doing inventory work. “Jiyoung and Beomkyu will be in Thailand next semester, those assholes, so I need a senior editor to step in for one of the managing editor positions. That’d be you, Wonwoo.”

“Why don’t you ask Soonyoung?” Wonwoo deflects. “Or Haeun? Hell, David is double-majoring in journalism and management operations.”

“Dumbass. Is literally running another magazine. Also dumbass. Double-majors mean shit if you think that that unicorn trend was anything but asinine.”

After looking up “asinine” in his phone dictionary, Mingyu can’t help but agree. That’s a good point.

“Mingyu’s one of the more competent freshman editors. He’ll be fine on his own,” Jihoon says. “Besides, it’s not like I’m stopping you guys from going on your Pokémon adventures or whatever. Keep doing that shit outside of the club, I don’t care. I literally just need someone who isn’t stupid or already running a different show to help me not go insane next semester. You can do this much for me after I—”

“Stop,” Wonwoo interjects, sudden. “Not here.”

“What about you, Mingyu?” Jihoon moves on, exhausted, entirely ignoring Wonwoo at this point. “How do you feel about taking off the training wheels?”

“Training wheels? I don’t _coddle_ him—”

“Mingyu?” Jihoon presses.

Once upon a time, Jihoon asked Mingyu for help. It was a life-changing experience.

It’s easy to see that Jihoon is the type to run himself dry on music compositions and band gigs when he’s not being neurotic over the design for the table of contents or coordinating team photoshoots at a particular hour because god knows lighting does _wonders_ for some people. He’s like any other student with a drive stronger than I Just Want to Survive because, hey, the guy’s got a hell of a lot of ambition and the discipline to prove it.

And Mingyu can’t lie—Jihoon may say he owes Mingyu for that one favor, but he literally gifted Mingyu the opportunity to drop by Wonwoo’s place again, which ended with streaming _Alita the Battle Angel _while huddled under Wonwoo’s great aunt’s hand-knitted blanket. There was plenty enough banter, smiles, and that gorgeous, unforgettable hesitance in Wonwoo’s eyes when Mingyu had to depart because he’d evaporate on the spot if he slept over.

Mingyu owes Jihoon, too. There’s no way he could rob Jihoon of the help he needs in favor of a selfish monopoly of Wonwoo’s time. Mingyu would probably do anything for Wonwoo at this point (except, uh, die, at least in good conscience). Eternal pining sucks less than the eternal guilt of letting Jihoon’s soul wither away faster than it already is.

“Sure,” Mingyu concedes.

Wonwoo gapes. Jihoon pats Mingyu on the shoulder.

“Good man. Knew I could count on you. We’ll chat later. Happy culturally-ambiguous holidays. Stay safe, eat well, get checked regularly and shit.”

“Wait, hold on a sec—”

Wonwoo cuts himself off with a cough, at which Mingyu rushes over to pat his back.

“Just because he’s in charge and we’re friends doesn’t mean we have to listen to him,” Wonwoo mumbles. It would’ve sounded like seething if the residual sickness didn’t coerce softness. “I’ll talk to him. Shadowing protocol lasts until mid-February—”

“I’ll be okay, hyung,” Mingyu assures him. “I’ve been doing alright on my own. Besides, it must be a pain for you to edit my stuff when you could be doing better things with your time, right?”

“That’s not,” Wonwoo starts.

“Hm?”

“That’s not,” sigh, head scratch. “Well, if that’s what you want, I guess, then I’m okay with it.”

Mingyu blinks. Wonwoo is looking down at his shoes, rubs his own arm and coughs another softened cough.

Does he seem…disappointed?

Ha. _Ha._ No, of course not. Sure, Mingyu knows Wonwoo, but he doesn't really _know_ Wonwoo, right? A few condensed months of not-dates and convenience store editing sessions surely aren't enough to supplement several years of nothing.

Right?

“Don’t worry about me!” Mingyu quickly says, “You’ve gotta admit, my writing’s gotten better since the semester started. You make fewer corrections now, especially on tone and structure. My word choice still sucks though.”

Wonwoo blinks. “Is it that obvious?”

“I mean,” Mingyu rubs his neck, “I read over your comments often, so I guess I just picked up on the trends? My courses were basically stats classes but, like, not stats, so.”

Wonwoo regards him for a moment—no comment, no sarcastic remark about Mingyu’s unforgiving dedication to trends in general except, thankfully, that actually asinine unicorn craze. What can Mingyu say? He’s bit of a basic bitch. He wouldn’t say no to an avolatte.

Wonwoo’s expression sours. “That’s your avolatte face.”

“I have a face for that?”

“You have weirdly specific faces for everything.”

Mingyu blinks. “Is it that obvious?”

His impression of Wonwoo is terrible enough to earn him a weak shove to the shoulder. “You’re not that hard to read, idiot.”

Mingyu weak-punches him back. “I’ll have you know I’m a man of darkness, enigma, _intrigue. _I am death itself.”

“You’re an Aries. You are literally none of those things.”

“And you're a _crab_. What can you do? Pinch me?”

Wonwoo does just that, making Mingyu shriek something of a demon noise. Wonwoo might be laughing. He might also be trying to strangle Mingyu and that _might_ make Mingyu hyperaware of how unready he is to let go of Wonwoo as a partner just yet.

On the zero point zero zero zero zero zero zero seven percent chance that Wonwoo really is disappointed, Mingyu knows exactly what to do.

“Hey, you free tomorrow?” he asks.

“No,” Wonwoo says evenly. “But you’re welcome to change my mind.”

“It’s a secret!”

“Secrets are like surprises, and I don’t like surprises.”

“I promise it’s legal! Well, mostly—“

“That makes me even _less_ convinced but I guess as long as I’m not arrested—”

Mingyu would argue that board games are the millennial university student’s quintessential shortcut to (A) having fun with friends and/or (B) getting wasted under the pretense of having fun with friends and/or (C) not having friends anymore.

Minghao was all about self-fulfilling prophecies, especially at the idea of drinking through games predicated on strategic bullshitting and Lady Luck’s arbitrary blessings. However, Mingyu and Seokmin are hosting this time since their shared dorm is pretty big; their RA already yellow-carded them earlier that month for Seokmin’s screech-singing at 3am, so homemade spiked eggnog is as far as Mingyu is willing to go.

“Prepare your assholes, assholes,” Minghao growls when it’s his turn. He definitely pregamed this. “I’m gonna _wreck_ everyone tonight.”

“Ooh, take me on a date first,” hoots a friend from class.

“Not into polyamory but I can respect that!” another friend calls out.

“Just do the thing so I can get my turn over with,” Seokmin whines.

With the unfounded confidence of a Yugioh protagonist invigorated by the Power of Friendship, Chan is already poised above the deck. Precise. Elegant. It’s still a wonder how they smuggled a high schooler in here. (“This is what I meant by mostly legal,” Mingyu had said.)

Chan flips the top card over with an extravagant flourish and proclaims, “Name three countries that were part of the Soviet Union!”

Pandemonium starts ahead of schedule with Minghao screaming, “Russia, uh, uh, _uh, _the 'stans’— whaddaya mean that doesn’t count? That’s more than three!” before elbowing Chan into a wrestling match.

“Then name one!” Chan yells back.

“Pakistan!”

“Wrong!”

“Then pick another one! There’s like a dozen more!”

Mingyu surmises that Chan doesn’t feel pain with how comfortable he is at picking fights with Minghao. How those two met, too, is a mystery. Is Chan real? Or a shared figment of imagination? So many questions.

Mingyu mulls over this existential parable at the kitchenette, washing the various liquid-bearing vessels he managed to dig out of his and Seokmin’s collective stockpile of free New Student Orientation paraphernalia.

“Hey, Mingyu. Is there any more eggnog?”

Eunwoo—whose real name is a relic, at this point—is the part-time model and sweet-tempered darling of the consumer psych department. Technically, the two of them are the same age, but, like most people Mingyu seems to know, Eunwoo hasn’t yielded to obligatory patriotic duty just yet.

“We definitely have more. Too much, in fact,” Mingyu says as he opens the fridge to refill Eunwoo’s cup. “Still good?”

Eunwoo takes a gratuitous sip. “Definitely.”

Mingyu snickers.

“What is it?”

“You’ve got a nog mustache, sunbae.”

Eunwoo chuckles along as he licks his upper lip clean. The nearby screams may or may not be of glee or enraged accusations of “cheap as shit you _dickhead” _sportsmanship.

“I keep telling you to stop calling me sunbae,” Eunwoo admonishes. “We’re the same age.”

“I know, I know, but I’m so used to it already!”

“Then get un-used to it! You make me feel old.”

“You _are_ though! You go to movie theaters on weekdays. _In the afternoon.”_

“…but Discount Thursdays are so good,” Eunwoo professes weakly, which makes Mingyu laugh again. “I’ll treat you next time, when that new romantic comedy comes out next year. The one with IU?”

“Oh god, I _love_ her. I think I’ve listened through all her albums at least five times.”

“Me too! You know, I almost met her during a photoshoot—”

“What the hell _no way—”_

“Sorry to bother but, uh, I heard there's more eggnog?”

Mingyu realizes that Wonwoo has crept into the small kitchen space, too, and rather bashfully at that. He’s wearing this loose sweater colored the most vibrant Christmas red, and his hair is curling softly at the tips, like they just finished drying after a warm shower. And, _boy_, you have no idea how much Mingyu has missed Wonwoo in glasses.

_Soft_, is the first spluttered thought. _Tis the season of giving, bless up_, is the more or less intelligible follow-up.

“Mingyu?”

Oh, shit. Wonwoo’s still talking.

“Y-Yes, more eggnog! Coming right up!”

It's strange, seeing Wonwoo around people he doesn't know.

Wonwoo typically practices a baseline reticence, but he opens up like a lotus bud at the tail of summer when familiarity is his pond. That isn’t the case tonight. Here, he only really knows Mingyu. Perhaps he knows Minghao through Jun, but their mutual acknowledgement offers brief nods at best.

Wonwoo also revels in the intellectual excitement of real strategy and spontaneous teamwork (“Are you trying to justify your Overwatch obsession?” “Shut up.”) Board Game Night with a gaggle of freshmen and the occasional humanities upperclassman doesn’t really confer much beyond inconsequential, immature fun.

By every definition, this event is everything against what Wonwoo stands for. And yet he’s here. Maybe Senioritis, or eggnog, has loosened that tonight.

As he ladles Wonwoo’s refill, Mingyu suddenly feels a presence step into the space behind him and—oh, okay, um—a hand has appeared on his waist. Somehow.

“Mingyu-_yah_, update me later, hm?” Eunwoo murmurs, lowly, wicked grin far too audible for comfort. “I’ll leave you to it.”

With a squeeze firm enough to wrest a soulless squeal from Mingyu’s throat, Eunwoo steps back, expression as textbook Boy Next Door as you can get. It’s easy to forget the gremlin for gossip beneath that strawberry smile.

No, Mingyu didn’t tell Eunwoo about Wonwoo. Eunwoo probably didn't even _know_ Wonwoo before tonight. Eunwoo’s just smart, Mingyu’s just dumb, and this time of year makes it hard for Mingyu to relax his heart-sleeve so now it’s even more obvious just how much he wants to smother in affection the person next to him who’s not Eunwoo but actually Wonwoo. Not the time of year for eloquence, either, apparently.

Trouble incarnate salutes Wonwoo, “Happy holidays, sunbae,” before rejoining game night AKA party pack disaster edition.

For a while, neither Wonwoo nor Mingyu says anything. Mingyu can’t look up without feeling a crawling dread that he did something wrong.

Then: “Can I have that?”

“The what—oh, yes! The drink. This drink. That you asked for. Yes, sorry.”

Mingyu hands over the goods before busying himself again, hoping Wonwoo will leave him alone just long enough to let him regroup his last few brain cells.

Wonwoo settles against the counter. Never mind, then.

“Nice sunbae, huh?” Wonwoo says.

“Eunwoo? Yeah, he helps me with my major classes. We’re actually the same age even though he’s in his third year.”

“Is he normally that touchy?”

“Not if you tell him you don’t like it.”

“So you’re okay with it.”

The tone Wonwoo uses doesn't ask for an answer, but what the question-statement implies surely does.

“I…guess?” Mingyu’s voice cracks. He grimaces. “Organized sports don’t leave much room for being prude about that stuff.”

“I see.”

Wonwoo sips. Mingyu feels so lost he’s become the TV series—and he doesn't even understand English.

“He was right about the eggnog,” Wonwoo says. “I’m glad the rum and cognac I stole from Jihoon were for a good cause.”

“The cause being?”

“Me. And everyone else. But mostly me.”

“A good cause indeed,” Mingyu manages a chuckle. “Thank you for bringing them.”

Wonwoo airily waves his hand. “It’s the least Jihoon could do after splitting us up.”

Hello again, cold sweat. It's been too long.

Suds and water are hard to concentrate on when the person next to Mingyu is far more compelling, but he needs to be diligent. Knowing that Wonwoo is here, in his (and Seokmin’s) dorm, drinking from Mingyu’s favorite Hufflepuff mug (it was a coincidence, Mingyu _swears_) is already doing devastating things to Mingyu’s student debt-poor heart. Be cool, be _cool._

“Can I use your bathroom?”

“Yes! Yes,” Mingyu says, doing his god damn best to dry the Best Dad mug he bought himself as a joke that’s much less funny now knowing Wonwoo might mistake Mingyu for having a child. “Down the hall and to the left— _right!_ It’s on the right. My bedroom is on the left. Uh, anyway, ignore the biohazard sign on the door. Seokmin has the humor of a preteen.”

“What was that, best friend?” Stupid Seokmin and his extremely selective hearing. “I got that to commemorate the time we got food poisoning together—”

“There’s still extra eggnog if anyone wants more!” Mingyu declares over Seokmin. That bastard is _not_ about to ruin this even more.

“Good to know your GI tract works, considering how much you can eat all the time,” Wonwoo says. “Do you mind watching my drink? I promise that’s not the reason why I have to go.”

“Don’t worry, I used pasteurized eggs—”

Then, very handsomely, if not arguably charmingly, King Butterfingers himself magically forgets about the solid mug in his own hands (which he was going to hurl at Seokmin’s dumb face) in order to cradle the very drink he’d both involved Wonwoo in and impressed Wonwoo with. It’s a valiant endeavor, honestly.

Then he drops his Best Dad mug, which, really, was only a matter of time.

The mug falls to the floor. It shatters into a million slivers of glittering white ceramic and fatherly disappointment. Mingyu’s entire physical integrity just about disintegrates in the same horrifying fashion as that one scene from _Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Arc_, which may or may not have permanently traumatized him as a child. This is pretty close to doing the same thing.

Chan leaps up in panic. “You okay, Mingyu?” Other guests repeat similar versions of concern.

Their genuine worry would be flattering if Mingyu wasn’t praying for the floor gods to swallow him up.

“Totally fine!” Mingyu promises. “Just dropped a mug. Ha ha, clumsy me!”

“Do you need help cleaning?” Minghao asks, suddenly sober.

Mingyu flaps his hand at them. “No no, I’ve got it! You guys keep doing your thing!”

Maybe if Mingyu squats—ow—and busies himself with picking up the pieces—ow—then Wonwoo won’t see just how embarrassed he feels—fucking _ow_—

“There are gloves you can use, you know.”

Wonwoo squats down to eye level with Mingyu and offers one obnoxiously pink rubber glove, the other already on his own hand. In a rare moment, Mingyu is grateful for his left-handedness.

“Statistically-speaking, flat surfaces have a better rate of not dropping things than I do,” Mingyu mumbles as he and Wonwoo toss the mug pieces into the trash bin. “Not that statistics are end-all-be-all since most of them are fabricated anyway—”

“Like that one.”

“Like this one,” Mingyu concurs. He drops his head and sighs. “Thank you. You don't have to help.”

“I feel like it's partly my fault.”

Mingyu whips his head up, “What? How is it your—”

But his words halt at the finger-snap deja vu of Wonwoo’s face being this dangerously close.

It’s not the same. The room is brightly lit this time, so Mingyu can discern the faded acne scars at Wonwoo’s jaw, the creases under Wonwoo’s eyes, the near-invisible lines of blue around the gentle, upward slopes around Wonwoo’s mouth. The noise from afar (“Screw you! You cheated!” “How the hell do you cheat at Five Second Rule?!”) dissipates in Mingyu’s mind.

It’s convenient that Mingyu lives here. At this rate, he might pass out from all this stress.

“Don't worry so much,” Wonwoo assures him, quiet, even though a normal volume would still barely be heard over the chaos down yonder. “I think I’ve got something to cheer you up. Head to your room when you’re done.”

Blink. Then he’s gone.

Honestly, Mingyu doubts that Wonwoo is actually that fast. Mingyu’s brain probably just short circuits whenever Wonwoo pulls shit like this, or whenever he…exists more intensely than usual.

God, what is Mingyu even thinking? Bringing Wonwoo over was the worst idea. And now Wonwoo is going to be inside Mingyu’s bedroom, with Mingyu, while Mingyu is every single level of pathetically disoriented and then some—and then some more.

With the hand devoid of sharp pointy things that could puncture his moneymaker, Mingyu slaps himself. _Hold it together, you dumbass._ _You’ve got one more shot at being slightly less of a dumbass tonight and you’re not gonna waste it._

He carefully finishes the last of his cleanup, reunites Lefty Glove with Righty Glove at the sink, then practically sprints to his room even though it’s literally right there.

Ah, and Wonwoo’s already inside. That was pretty fast, though being a guy helps considerably. Wait, what’s he holding in his—

“Does every freshman get this now?” Wonwoo inquires. “How generous.”

Wonwoo, bless his heart, is referring to the god-awful box of Trojans Seokmin and Minghao graced Mingyu with earlier this semester.

“These are pretty expensive, you know, being imported and all.”

Wonwoo’s tone stays light despite watching Mingyu, at near-hysteria now, launch himself into the room to snatch the box away and catapult it into his closet. Will the floor show mercy tonight and devour Mingyu on the spot? Still no? Damn it.

“Domestic brands not good enough?” There’s an unaired laugh in Wonwoo’s glittering eyes.

“Seokmin's glee club has a military brat who's, uh, generous,” Mingyu desperately explains.

“Talk about ‘having connections,’ huh.”

“Hyung, _no.”_

“Are you not using them?”

“Of course not!”

“…can I have them, then?”

Mingyu nearly falls off his bed. “For what?”

“You…do know what those are, right? You don't actually think there are wooden horses made to invade the city of Troy in there—wow, the double meanings really jumped out.”

“Okay, good, I thought it was just me. And _hey _of course I know what those things are! I’m not a kid!”

Everyone and their mother knows that Wonwoo could swiftly and methodically pick Mingyu apart with an opening like that. Yelling you’re not a kid? Like a _kid?_ Amateur move.

Thankfully, Wonwoo is nice enough to just indulge in a smooth chuckle before resting his eyes on Mingyu’s deluge of anime posters (“Volleyball, huh? Not swimming?” “Well, I couldn’t have half-naked anime guys on my wall without feeling weird about it.” “There’s nothing wrong with appreciating the male figure.” “Senpai, stop, please—” Wonwoo kicks him.)

Spread starfish on his bed with no more feeling left in his heart, Mingyu vaguely registers a weight materialize on his abdomen.

He turns his head and sees Wonwoo recline back into the chair.

“What’s this?” Mingyu asks dumbly.

“A present.”

“A present?”

“Do you enjoy repeating things I say?”

“It’s safer than letting my mouth run.” Mingyu pulls himself together and sits up, small box in hand. “Let me guess: socks?”

“No, but you’re close.”

“Socks…but with fried chicken on them.”

“Uh, no.”

“Socks with—”

“Not socks.”

“A tamagotchi! I’ve always wanted one.”

“_No.”_

“An iTunes gift card?

“Those still exist?”

“Oh! I got it. An _egg—”_

“Are you shitting me right now? Seriously?” Wonwoo actually gets up just to push Mingyu over, absolutely fuming in the most hilariously ticked-off way possible. “Shut your dumb mouth and open the box, you goob.”

Let Freud have his field day. Mingyu is unashamed to report that he’d let Wonwoo half-wrestle-half-crawl over him in a watered-down episode of mania—after being driven to it because of Mingyu—any day of the week.

“Okay, okay, I’ll open it, sheesh,” Mingyu relents, easily jostling Wonwoo over until they’re both sitting upright like civil human beings. “I wasn’t kidding about the tamagotchi though.”

When the wrapping paper is off, Mingyu finally shuts his, as Wonwoo aptly put it, dumb mouth.

“I wanted to get you something practical that wasn’t just socks,” Wonwoo reasons. “You have a knack for getting yourself hurt, and you’re a bona fide gym rat now, so, yeah.”

Weight lifting gloves. Mingyu has certainly looked into them because he’s a sweaty bitch born with thrice the sweat glands of a normal person in his palms. He’d never gotten around to buying a pair because of…other priorities, but he was certainly looking into some for the new year. Now he doesn’t have to.

Mingyu wonders, with adjunct horror, how Wonwoo could have picked such a perfect present.

“When did you buy these?”

“When I stopped coughing my head off, I guess?”

That time at the apartment, when Wonwoo, half-conscious, grabbed Mingyu’s hand, and he pulled back so quickly—

Mingyu promptly glues his stupid, sweaty hands to his stupid face and collapses onto his stupid pillows.

“Sorry, is it a bad present?” Wonwoo doesn’t deserve to sound remotely dejected over someone as lame as Mingyu. “I still have the receipt. You can return it for something else.”

“I love it,” Mingyu says, though rather muffled. “Really, I do. I love it. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Okay. So why are you doing that?”

“Not telling.”

“Please?”

With the last shred of his dignity, Mingyu croaks out, “There’s a wrapped box behind my backpack. Please get it.”

The bed shifts up and down again quite easily with Wonwoo’s disappearance and return. There’s a shitty metaphor in there somewhere. There’s a shitty metaphor in everything these days.

“Is this for me?”

Wonwoo’s voice has reached a level of soft and gracious and _I could listen to this forever _that makes the roiling bubble in Mingyu’s stomach settle to a heated simmer. There’s a sound of rustling, paper crumpling and quiet sighing. Then, a hand settles onto Mingyu’s wrist—God, Mingyu forgot how much he missed that touch—and, like a switch, Mingyu lets himself breathe.

You best believe he needed that oxygen because there Wonwoo is, lying next to Mingyu, in _Mingyu’s bed_, loosely wrapped in an oversized woolen scarf.

“You’ll be surprised to know,” Wonwoo murmurs because Mingyu is already so near _Christ_ that he doesn’t have to speak any louder, “that this is my first scarf, at least the first I’ve gotten since high school.”

“That’s incredible,” Mingyu says, dazed out of mind. “Not in a good way, though. Like, incredible in a bad way.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m tired.”

Wonwoo chuckles—_no, _perhaps a, um, giggle? Maybe? Mingyu is well and truly on an express train to insanity and he’s ready to ride that business class seat.

“Thank you,” Wonwoo says. “I love it.”

And then they stay like that: lying next to each other, trading quiet words about that one scary anime about orphans and a deranged orphanage mother and that Wonwoo should totally watch it because it's such a refreshing take on the horror genre and—well, that’s all on Mingyu. Wonwoo seems content enough to listen.

Mingyu says something about watching the first sunrise of the new year. Wonwoo grins something of an affirmation. Mingyu grins back, dizzy with barely a cup of spiked eggnog in his system.

Like this, their faces are unbearably near; Mingyu can smell the warm spices and warmer liquors in Wonwoo’s breaths. But this fact isn’t precluded by another episode in Mingyu’s Embarrassing Life: The Sitcom. This one is built from thoughtful presents and silly babbling, by a mutual appreciation for good company and a surprisingly comfy duvet despite the student discount.

Mingyu can separate each eyelash, count the dulled freckles spotting Wonwoo’s nose. Mingyu has glanced a total of twice at Wonwoo’s lips now as they moved to something about flying to Japan for Christmas. Mingyu already knew Wonwoo had some great pout potential, but he had to make sure. For science.

“Shit.” Wonwoo scrambles up. “Jeonghan has a karaoke thing at nine tonight. I promised I’d go.”

“No worries. This was pretty last-minute.” Mingyu gets up more carefully. His head is still in a dreamy haze. “Thank you for coming over.”

“Of course. I had to give you your present somehow.”

“Mail?”

“I’m impatient.”

Mingyu hums. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

Yes, this is certainly all well and good for the development of what Mingyu is proud to call his Maybe Romance with Wonwoo. Anyone—even Wonwoo, _surely_—would be hard-pressed to justify the nuclear levels of deep, longing stares that just went down as anything otherwise.

However, this is the holiday special for Mingyu’s Embarrassing Life: The Sitcom, after all. So, unsurprisingly, it turns out that spiked holiday drinks and unbridled tabletop competition will end up shortening Mingyu’s lifespan by several years with the help of a plastic plant.

_“Mistletoe! Mistletoe!”_

Before you ask, no, it wasn’t there before. And, no, Mingyu is not excited about it.

“Hey— you guys— that’s not,” he cycles through different ways to gracefully decline the forced artifice, succeeding exactly zero times. He glances back and forth between his chanting friends and Wonwoo, whose expression is impeccably nondescript. “Hyung’s gotta go—”

“Then make it quick, Casanova!”

“Aw, he looks disappointed it’ll be over soon!”

“Mingyu or sunbae?”

_“Por que no los dos?”_

The roars of laughter are exhausting. Mingyu is trembling. He really has no idea what to do. He’s a people-pleaser by nature but a religious believer of That Consent Tho by nurture, so this is a tug of war with his morals and instincts haphazardly thrown at the center.

“You don’t have to,” Wonwoo says. “I know you said that skinship doesn’t bother you, but this is different, right?”

Ah, Wonwoo really is a beacon of clarity in times that lack it.

But, then again, Mingyu has been a lost cause ever since the mug breaking spectacle roundhouse-kicked the common sense out of him so Wonwoo’s words are moot.

“I, sure, yes, that’s, yes,” Mingyu starts babbling out because his mouth has fallen to autopilot, “But it’s not like I’m against it or anything—”

“You’re not?”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine, since it’s you, a-and I trust you, I just— I’m just—”

“Mingyu.”

“I don’t, y’know, want _you_ to feel like you have to, either, so, uh, it’s, you don’t—”

_“Mingyu.”_

“I’m tall enough. I can probably grab it crush it with my bare hands because I am definitely capable of doing that—”

There is a stuttering pressure at Mingyu’s cheek. The pressure releases. In the corner of Mingyu’s eye, Wonwoo rocks back onto his feet.

“I. I,” Mingyu says.

“Mistletoe rules,” Wonwoo says back. He makes a pointed look at Eunwoo in the corner, tacks on, “Happy holidays.” And then he’s off.

No one says a word before the door closes. No one says a word after the door closes. Is Mingyu foaming at the mouth? If he isn’t, he might as well be.

Seokmin gets up to check if Mingyu is still conscious. He’s not. Seokmin snaps a few photos before manhandling Mingyu out of the way to get to the fridge.

“So,” Seokmin says, Mingyu still broken and frozen beside him. “Anyone want more nog?”

In the morning, after nearly passing out from last night’s events, Mingyu finds a small card dropped on his bedroom floor.

_Dear Dumbbell,_

_Never in my life would I imagine that I’d reunite with you after all this time. Thank you for making this semester full of food, laughs, and new memories. Here’s to even more in the new year._

_Love,_   
_Mr. (Not so) Cold & Aloof_

**wonline**  
Hey, do you still want to watch the sunrise?

**mingupingu**  
yeeeeeeeeeeeee  
sunrise n ocean is GORG  
hows jpn??

**wonline**  
Really nice, actually  
Definitely don’t miss my brother eating all my food though  
We don’t have an ocean here  
BUT we are in the land of the rising sun, so

**mingupingu**  
thats trueeee!!!  
hey do u wanna call??  
txting is such a hassle

**wonline**  
You sure? Aren’t you with family?

**mingupingu**  
nah fell asleep after the countdown  
got too invested in the new years specials lol  
dw senpai ive got dis

**wonline**  
STFU  
Call when you’re ready

Thrumming with the buzz of excitement, Mingyu makes quick work of the pathway from his grandparents’ house in Jeju to the rocky coastline nearby. He climbs up the rocks like it’s clockwork. Rocky edges poke into his calloused feet. The adrenaline doesn’t surge the way it used to, when he was younger and smaller and needed to work harder to reach higher places—now, the adrenaline seeps in slowly, like a sweet honey pot accidentally left upturned.

Flecks of saltwater greet him good morning. Waves lap at the feet of the rocks, delighted at the sight of a returning visitor. The smells are incredible.

Up here, the only thing Mingyu thinks is: _Wow. It’s beautiful._

“Happy New Year,” Mingyu greets into into his phone screen where Wonwoo’s flushed face is looking right back at him. “Did you eat a lot for dinner?”

“Of course that’d be the first thing you ask me,” Wonwoo chides. “I probably ate my body weight in food and then some, if that’s what you want to know.”

“You’re not that heavy! Maybe if you ate _my_ body weight in food, you wouldn’t need my help with all those book returns.”

“Don’t be so self-centered. I used my other friends as pack mules, too.”

“I’m the best one though, right?”

“Is your New Year’s resolution to inflate your ego? Because you’re off to a great start.”

“Wait, are you,” Mingyu says, eyeing Wonwoo’s blurry shivers, “Are you on the balcony?”

When Wonwoo hesitates a nod, Mingyu laughs, astounded. Tokyo winters are vastly different from winters by the sea.

“Since _you’re_ outside,” Wonwoo explains with effort, “I thought I should be, too.”

“You couldn’t sit behind the sliding door?”

“Not the same view.”

“A drink?”

“Locked up.”

“A smoke then?”

“Trying to kick that down this year.”

Mingyu_ gasps_ so sharply he nearly drops his phone to its rocky, watery demise. “You are? That’s amazing! Is that your New Year’s resolution? Why? Did you visit a doctor lately? You’re not going to die soon, are you?”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes, pushes his glasses up further. His sigh looks like a dragon’s breath. “Just thought it’s about time to get my life in order. Be healthier, get my shit together or whatever.”

“Dude. You do laundry and you fold your clothes. _And_ you floss. That’s, like, a lot already.”

“That’s the absolute minimum you doof— wait. You don’t floss?”

“Um.”

_“Disgusting,” _Wonwoo hisses, face twisting behind the oversized scarf—Mingyu’s oversized scarf, that he gave Wonwoo, and that Wonwoo is now using at this very moment. Mingyu’s toes curl at the sight. “If I get sick again, you’ll just kick my door down and make me food anyway.”

Mingyu gawks. “What happened to ‘abuse of power’?”

“Is it abuse of power if you’re the one forcing your way in?”

“I— that's fair.”

Wonwoo laughs out loud, unrestrained into the night air.

If not for the weather and the lock on the Jeon family’s liquor cabinet, Mingyu would’ve sworn Wonwoo had dipped into Mrs. Jeon’s champagne stores.

There’s a redness to the highs of Wonwoo’s already high cheeks, smile a little dopier than the usual straight-lipped acknowledgement or straight-laced curve for courtesy. Wonwoo’s nose is red, too, like a sweet, bright cherry.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” says Wonwoo. “Why do you watch the first sunrise?”

“Ah, well,” Mingyu says, his own cheeks reddening.

Mingyu has always loved watching the first sunrise, ever since his grandparents invited him to watch it with them years ago. There’s something poetic about where the horizon is: the way two infinities—stretches of lurid sky above and impossible ocean depths below—remain alongside one another, stubborn, even if separation is their only fate. It’s like a pigheaded game of tag, or a never-ending hunt, or an ill-fated love. As a toddler, Mingyu used to wonder if they’d catch each other one day after so long of chasing.

Now he’s older and recognizes that the sky and waters don’t work that way. Still, Mingyu, in his indomitable petulance, still thinks it’s something humbling to think about.

“When I was younger,” he says. “My grandparents would tell me that, if you make a wish during the first sunrise, your wish will come true.”

“Do you believe them?”

“Eight-year-old me was a gullible sucker. At twenty-one? I’d call it being hopeful.”

“You’re still gullible. And a sucker.”

Mingyu chuckles faintly. “You have no idea.”

Just then, a ribbon of golden light races over the horizon line. Another follows, then another, like a loud burst of popping streamers to celebrate the new beginning.

“It’s starting!” Mingyu exclaims. “Do you see it? Is it rising over there, too?”

“Yes,” Wonwoo exhales. “It’s…amazing.”

In some ways, Mingyu finds it ironic that concrete, glass, and metal symbolize just how far civilization has come. Mother Nature has always been mankind’s antithesis.

Clear away the skyscrapers and namesake architectural donations; tear down the unused stadiums and uninspired office buildings. There is nothing comparable to experiencing the sky split open like a ripe apple pried in two, letting the sun rise through vapor blankets of rosy pinks, creamsicle oranges, and bright, unapologetic blues.

It’s so stunning, the ocean can only hope to mirror what it sees.

“The sunrise is faster than you think!” says Mingyu. “Let’s make our wishes now!”

Wonwoo scoffs. “Yeah, you go do that. I’ll just sit back and admire the view.”

“C’mon, hyung! You’re already up for this, so why not?”

“And who’s fault is that?”

“I’ll take full responsibility,” Mingyu insists. “Now _wish.”_

“Fine, fine,” Wonwoo concedes. “I’ll make a stupid wish.”

As his eyes flutter shut, Mingyu does the same. They stay like this, seconds passing by, listening to the sounds of nature’s breaths—and maybe each other’s—right beside them.

When Mingyu opens his eyes again, his heart almost catches fire.

Wonwoo’s eyes are just opening, his skin baptized every color of the waking sky. His cheeks are still flushed, soft, warm. Flyaway hairs glow like threads of light, a golden frame—a halo. That damn scarf is hiding the bottom half of Wonwoo’s face, but his eyes are visibly curling upwards like two upside-down smiles with a sharp glint in the middle Mingyu can’t even begin to explain. He’s not looking into the distance anymore.

Something startlingly overwhelming floods Mingyu's body as swiftly as the speed of rising sunlight. Mingyu is honestly, finally at a loss for words.

“What’d you wish for?” Wonwoo asks, quiet.

Mingyu’s chest is an overblown balloon. There's a heat blooming at the back of his head. He should be used to this by now, just like any other muscle memory pledged to Wonwoo.

But it’s different this time. Mingyu can't even begin to explain why.

“If I told you,” Mingyu swallows thickly, looking away, “Then it won’t come true.” His ears are ringing.

“You’re right,” Wonwoo chuckles. “We wouldn’t want that happening, would we?”

Returning to campus is a slow, quiet venture.

The two of them don’t reconnect for a while. Wonwoo gets swept into a spontaneous road trip around the Japanese countryside, while Mingyu is tasked with keeping his mother sane throughout food preparations for the first week of the new year.

Mingyu ends up flying out a few days earlier than planned. To have time, he insisted, to get ready for the spring.

Like irrational panic and the color orange, listlessness doesn’t look good on Mingyu, so he distracts himself.

He mops the floor twice, rearranges his clothes by color coordination, dusts the plastic blinds and the crevices between the kitchen appliances even though this makes dust accumulate on the floor so he has to mop again. He picks at the dirt on his shoes until they’re spotless, wipes the mirror every time he flicks soap residue on it. Mingyu takes apart the toaster to scrub it clean because the crumbs just irritated him. So. Fucking. _Much._

Mingyu prides himself in his domesticity, sure, but even he knows this is going overboard.

“What the fuck am I doing?” he mutters to himself, slumped against the couch after disinfecting the coffee table, TV screen, _and_ remote, which still has the plastic cover on it.

Minghao is vacationing in the second-most unbreakable fortress of firewalls. Seokmin is on a cruise in the Caribbean. Even Mingyu’s chat log with his high school swim team is bare—save for the team captain, who recently became a Cat Mom so the feed is flooded with photos of a Persian named Sir Mittensworth.

Mingyu doesn’t dare text Wonwoo. Not when everything is just so…confusing.

For the past several years, Mingyu has thrown around the L word as a verbal abstraction for this nigh inexplicable desire towards the same person all these years.

Saying that his heart belongs to Wonwoo, that he’s head over heels for Wonwoo, that he _loves_ Wonwoo with every fiber of his being—it’s reflex. And calling this—whatever emotional hiccups Mingyu endures at the thought, sight, _touch_ of Wonwoo—that ridiculous four-letter word is far from unfounded because Mingyu would be damned if he doesn’t feel that way.

But now, for some reason, he can’t bring himself to say it. Not in his head, certainly not out loud. It’s like the word is locked behind steel-cut doors and god knows Mingyu ain’t smart or lucky enough to pull the secret password out of his ass.

One night, he stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His stubble is more prominent. He might have grown a little taller. He’s gotten tanner, too.

For the first time in his life, Mingyu doesn’t recognize what he sees.

He finally did the homework Wonwoo assigned him that day on the smoking bench. Over the holidays, Mingyu had asked his mother to bring a photo of him from middle school. It sits on his sink now, slightly dampened.

In the mirror, a phantom of resemblance only gases the unfamiliarity in the eyes blinking back at him. New muscle pulses at his jaw. A permanent ridge lives between his eyebrows from too much squinting during summer military training. Sun-touched burns make his nose peel just a little.

_I barely recognize you. _Those were Wonwoo’s words before.

_I barely recognize me_. Those are Mingyu’s words now.

Something vibrates in the deepest part of Mingyu’s ribcage. Like a language, it feels foreign, but like language itself, it’s still familiar. Why is he like this? Where is it coming from?

What has changed?

**mingupingu**  
hey seok im headed to the farmers market  
lmk if u want anything befor eu come back

**thatlostseok**  
Yo sorry for the late reply Internet’s bad  
Yeah sure  
Wait  
WAIT  
Fmarket is code for bad are you okay?  
Mingyu?  
MINGYUUUU??????

When all else fails, food is the answer. That’s a motto Mingyu has lived by for years now with a decent success rate.

The farmer's market is vastly superior to the second-rate excuse of a grocery store next to campus, brimful of useless coupons and questionable 2-for-1 deals for gullible students. In the city nearby, the farmer's market is a centralized locus for people who actually care about what they put in their body, always bursting with passionate food lovers and effervescent pop-up shops.

Up until an hour ago, the temperature was unbearably cold, the prickly kind that could make your ears throb. Now, it’s ceded to something gentler so the market is thronged with excited, layered attendance.

The air is still a bone-dry chill, still draws breaths into thinly-misty clouds hovering around conversation. Mingyu finds himself pulled into one with a particularly talkative uncle.

“You look like a young man who eats well,” the uncle asserts. “You know much about eggplants?”

“I, uh, no?” Mingyu says politely. He’d been eyeing some oranges further down the line, actually. “Is there much to say about them?”

The uncle, apparently affronted, dances a hand to his chest. “The disrespect! My boy, the royal eggplant is one of the most venerable fruits, _nay_, one of the most venerable berries in the world!”

“…wait, so it’s not a vegetable?”

The uncle’s hand flutters to his forehead. He looks tearful.

And so Mingyu gets an earful about the history of eggplants—something about India and Southeast Asia fighting China for rights to the origin story, something else about the Middle Ages and trade routes (because, hey, bodies of water were a thing) and also Europeans are always hungry for stuff that wasn’t theirs. Just typical colonizer things.

“Northern Europeans called eggplants the Mad Apple,” says the uncle. “And Southern Europeans? They called it the Apple of Love.”

Mingyu stares at the uncle. The way his toothy grin swallows up his eyes resembles Seokmin in forty years too closely for comfort. Then Mingyu glances back at the collection of hand-grown produce in front of him. Deep purple, near black. Laminated skin that’s easily pierced when steamed just right.

Ridiculously, Mingyu wonders if, perhaps, this is how Adam and Eve got kicked out. The Tree of Knowledge didn’t explicitly blossom with apple flowers and the Mandela effect can be indomitable in the face of arduously shared faith. Love and madness aren’t opposites, but maybe they’re two sides of the same, dark purple sin.

“Well, the color is only skin deep,” the uncle suddenly says, “and recipes are color blind. The beauty of cooking, eh?”

Mingyu is about to say something about how ludicrous that logic is because ingredients aren’t just arbitrary lottery picks, that the parts are just as important as the end product itself—

“Calm down, Mr. The Hulk, it’s too goddamn early to pick a fight with history buff food vendors.”

Mingyu’s jaw slackens in easy surrender, so easy it’s almost habit at this point.

When he turns to his side, he sees—_surprise _(but actually, though)—Wonwoo standing there with little reason, if any at all, to be here.

Wonwoo looks just as he did during the first sunrise, but without the noise-filled barrier of a phone screen: cheekbones and nose cold-bitten to a blush, sleep deprivation as clear on his face as the contentment in his eyes. Thick hair sticks out in chunks. The scarf is still there.

“Hyung,” Mingyu breathes. “What are you doing here?”

“Free samples?” Wonwoo says. “Flew in yesterday and passed out before dinner. Woke up hungry.”

Mingyu stares.

“Seokmin got a hacker friend to tell Minghao who told Jun who told me you were on campus already and were feeling down for some reason and would probably visit the farmer’s market this morning to try and feel better to minimal if any avail,” Wonwoo relents with great, almost irritated effort. He’s staring furiously at the eggplants now, glasses a little fogged. “Not sure how I could help, but I was hungry, so.”

“Did you fly in just for me?”

“As if I could pull that with holiday flight prices. But I certainly wasn’t planning on waking up this early. You’re welcome.”

Mingyu’s shoulders loosen and open up, like a leather-bound book with a freshly-cracked spine. His chest pulls out wider, lets more air in.

“How’d you even find me?” he asks. “There’s a lot of people here.”

“Trust me,” Wonwoo says, “You’re not that hard to find.”

“I’m not?”

“You're a tree man amongst grass people. I blame your swimming.”

“Just face it, hyung, I was always going to be taller than you.”

“I have a hard time believing that.”

Wonwoo reaches out to one eggplant and weighs it in his hand.

“My mother makes some really good stir-fried eggplants,” he says. “I always ask her to make it when I visit.”

“Want me to cook you some?” Mingyu’s mouth races out before his mind can catch up. When it does: “I-I mean, it probably won’t be as good as your m-mother’s or anything, and I promise I’m not trying to upstage her by asking you that, but my mom taught me how to make them over the break because she needed help with dinner all the time so—”

Wonwoo is already handing over a few plump eggplants to the uncle, who has been perfectly silent since his appearance. Wonwoo holds out a credit card before Mingyu can reach for his own wallet.

“Only if you’ll also buy us some oranges,” Wonwoo says. “I saw you eyeing them earlier. They looked delicious.”

Mingyu...can’t argue with that.

After the uncle kindly thanks them for their patronage, far more characteristic of someone his age, Wonwoo curls an arm around Mingyu’s to drag him to the pyramid of oranges nearby. He plucks the topmost orange with an expression still soured by the early hour, yet still so sweet that it rivals the jewel-bright and dimpled fruit in his fingers.

“These would be better over the summer,” Mingyu comments. “The heat makes them more fragrant.”

“Then let’s go somewhere warmer.”

“I don't think that's how it works.”

Mingyu chuckles as he trails Wonwoo to some roasting sweet potatoes.

Between a piece of potato skin getting stuck in Mingyu’s teeth and Wonwoo picking it out for him, to Wonwoo hailing an Uber for the freshman dorms before Mingyu can yelp in protest, to both of them thumping heads over a small trash can because they miscalculated just how juicy those oranges are and Mingyu’s a mess already but turns out that Wonwoo doesn’t know how to multitask his arms—

“God, this is gross,” Wonwoo grumbles. Mingyu reaches out to wipe the sweet, citrus dribbles at the edges of Wonwoo’s mouth. “We’re gross.”

“Yeah,” Mingyu concurs, lips pursing a little. “We are.”

A few oranges aren’t enough to fill two empty stomachs so Mingyu ends up starting on those stir-fried eggplants with the rice cooker steaming. Wonwoo retires to the couch, blinks once at his eBook of _Incendiaries_ before passing out from jet lag. He looks especially small, Mingyu thinks, swathed in both their winter coats because the heater is still coughing to life.

Near-quiet trickles into the space like snowfall. The lights are dimmed, but enough natural light drips through the gaps of the window curtains. It highlights the peaks of Wonwoo’s face, like the dusted tips of rounded hills—his cheeks—and the mountain top of his nose.

Mingyu shuffles over to pull Wonwoo’s glasses off his face. He sets it beside the remote still covered in plastic.

For some reason, Mingyu’s heart doesn’t swell to ten times its size, eager to erupt with velvet flower petals and terrible fictional tropes about young ardor. When Mingyu sits on the floor in front of Wonwoo’s face—adjusts the loll of Wonwoo’s head so it’s not hanging over the edge of the cushion, licks a thumb to wipe away at the dried-up orange juice still gathered at the corner of Wonwoo’s lips—he doesn’t feel his heart race horses for show or gamble.

It’s not that Mingyu doesn’t feel anything anymore, doesn’t feel his chest humming just a bit faster at the sight of Wonwoo’s face in the throes of sleep. Mingyu still feels things—still feels everything all at once.

But those things have changed somehow.

Instead of wanting to kiss in a July-warmed playground tunnel, Mingyu imagines pulling forward Wonwoo by his tie at a January reunion party.

Instead of seeking out fox eyes at the bleachers of a small-time swimming tournament, Mingyu wonders how angry Wonwoo might get if a black sock gets mixed in with the whites.

Instead of gazing at Wonwoo through the rose-colored lenses of a bygone era framed by icing face smudges, unforgiving staircases, stories about selling hearts and blind birdwatchers—

Mingyu wants every day to look like this instead.

Going on not-dates that might be actual dates in disguise if you ask anyone besides them. Bickering over which oranges have the nicest dimples in case the rinds end up becoming candied. Cooking comfort food that seems to find Tupperware more often than actual plates; maybe, one day, they might graduate to glassware.

Mingyu wants to be here, in this moment, and every other moment from now on, with someone else—_this _someone else. He wants to do this simply, easily, without any need for back-up plans or contingencies or old memories to cling desperately to because that’s what Mingyu has been doing all this time, isn’t it?

_What has changed?_

Watch a sunrise enough times, and it just becomes dawn. Love a person enough times, and it just becomes habit.

But, in time, the furthest ocean waves will return to shore. In time, life cycles back to where it began. Perhaps that is what this is.

And so the dusk has returned to its sunrises. Habits have melted into that L word all over again—love, love, _love_, Mingyu chants in his mind now that he can do it again.

_What has changed?_

Mingyu has grown up, and so has Wonwoo. They are near nothing like their younger selves anymore, at least not in the way Mingyu stubbornly tried to convince himself.

The love that started so long ago has grown up, too. Or maybe it has washed out in the face of a new cycle—a new beginning, as it were.

What has changed?

Nothing much, really. One of them has gotten taller, tanner, louder; the other is more polished, astute, sharp. Their fashion has improved. Their sleep schedules? Not so much.

But, if madness and love are indeed hand-in-hand, then both have set in steadily, growing slowly, like new muscles for new muscle memories. It feels like the internal bruising of prolonged hunger, like the dizzying feeling of standing in front of a forest fire after having done nothing but swim your entire life. After the first bite, after the first seed sprouts, everything starts anew.

This is a chance—another one—to do what Mingyu couldn’t years ago.

To love someone truly, fully, and completely unapologetically.

“Joshua?”

“Mingyu?”

“Joshua!

“Mingyu!”

“Seokmin!”

Before Mingyu smacks Seokmin out of reflex, he’s trapped within Joshua’s strong, Christian embrace. Fate somehow finds the three of them in the middle of a handmade jewelry store after Mingyu and Seokmin’s first Boba Bro Date since pre-finals week. Mingyu is here to get his sister a bracelet as obeisance for her cooperation over the break. Seokmin, to ruminate over whether a single nipple piercing is on brand or not.

“Dude, how long’s it been?” Joshua says, mature, sophisticated, _older_—what one would surely consider grown up. “A decade? Definitely more, right?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says, offering his best smile. “Sure feels like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal musical accompaniment for anyone interested:
> 
> [The sunrise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WDH_nJM3djc)  
[MG’s early return to campus + farmer’s market](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Les39aIKbzE)  
Eating the oranges: [(1)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lJEv0h493r4) or [(2)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QgaTQ5-XfMM) the latter of which is because I’m still trash for the song but now in classical form


	5. smoothies & spicy rice cakes

“Not sure if Mingyu ever told you,” says _The_ Joshua Hong with _The_ Queen of England’s cordiality, “but we used to be neighbors when we were younger. I’m Joshua Hong.”

Seokmin commits to the handshake like a man on a mercenary mission. “Don’t worry,” he says, gripping tight, “Mingyu has told me a lot about you.”

“Hopefully good things?”

“Definitely things.”

Joshua’s expression treads the line between unfazed and unknowing. Seokmin’s eyes narrow.

“So, uh, I knew you were gonna visit,” a sweaty Mingyu says as he karate chops the handshake, maybe vice grip, maybe both, “But I had no idea when.”

Joshua’s eternally bright, temperamental smile dampens. “Yeah. That. My grandmother is pretty sick and she wanted to see me, so I’ve been here since Christmas."

"Ah, um, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Not at all! She’s more annoyed than anything that she can’t brag about hitting the three digit milestone.”

“Good to know she has a fighting spirit,” Mingyu says with an awkward fist pump. “So, uh, how long are you here for? Maybe we can catch up, show our moms that we’re still friends even though _someone_ doesn’t have any SNS accounts for some reason.”

Joshua rolls his eyes. “It’s a lifestyle choice. Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“A lifestyle choice?” Seokmin butts in. “Like dieting? Or _Satanism?”_

Joshua blinks. “I’m sorry?”

Mingyu quickly jumps in, “I think he just means that meat substitute everyone keeps mispronouncing.”

“No,” Seokmin insists with the straightest face Mingyu has ever seen on him, “I said Satanism. You know, like the anti-Chr—”

Mingyu slaps a hand over Seokmin’s mouth with a “sorry” already in place.

And yet, for absolutely no reason at all, Joshua beats him to it. His look is apologetic—sweetly, irrevocably so. It’s amazing how much Joshua has grown into his grace, the kind you can only find in people born with it.

Mingyu remembers the day Mrs. Hong knocked on the door on the second moving-in day. She was carrying stacks of toilet paper twice her size, while her Tommy Hilfiger catalogue child model of a son was cradling a modest container of kimbap.

_We know this sort of thing isn’t common here, _Mrs. Hong had near-yelled behind her toilet paper fortress. _But we were in the states for a while, where it’s normal to give your neighbor gifts like this. May we come in?_

_With all that two-ply? Hell yeah, _Mrs. Kim replied. She and Mrs. Hong quickly bonded over their favorite wet wipe brands while nursing too-hot barley tea and stale sesame cookies.

Little Mingyu was still shy, didn’t really like people yet, didn’t know how to react to these strangers suddenly invading his home with giant marshmallow stacks and matching cross necklaces. Mingyu’s dad was a great conversation meat shield.

_Can I go upstairs?_ Mingyu whispered.

_No, that’s impolite, _Dad whispered back. _You don’t have to talk to them. Just stay here._

_What if they start talking to me?_

_You can talk, too._

_What if I don’t want to?_

_You have to learn at some point._ Little Mingyu never liked that answer.

Mrs. Hong’s son—Jisoo, with a polite bow—suddenly looked in their direction and Mingyu almost cowered on instinct. But he didn’t. At that age, Joshua had already trademarked the warmest, most inviting expression Mingyu had ever witnessed, and Mingyu has seen his father’s father try a Jeju orange for the first time since the war.

Mingyu was almost sure that Jisoo would introduce himself to Mr. Kim first. That was just courtesy. This would be Mingyu’s chance to fade into the shadows and get back to grinding on Pokémon Crystal.

_Hi,_ greeted Jisoo With a Polite Bow—greeted Mingyu, not his dad, Mingyu realizes. _What’s your name?_

_Mingyu. You’re…Jisoo?_

_Yup, but you can call me Joshua. My friends call me that._

_Jas…Joshi…Joshua._

_Exactly! Your pronunciation is great._

Little Mingyu smiled for the first time that evening.

_Is this how Wonwoo fell in love with you back then? _present Mingyu wonders, _because, honestly? I would, too._

Kindness, the ability to realize and befriend those in need of simple goodness, is a rare thing that is so easy to fall in love with, and impossible to fault when it happens.

Mingyu elbows Seokmin—“_Ow_, Mr. Subtlety”—away. Begrudgingly, Seokmin departs for the bracelet corner of the store.

“I’m going back to the states soon,” Joshua says. “I’m in Korea for few more days, maybe? I might push a week, depending on what my parents say.”

“Only that much longer?”

“Yeah, Mom doesn’t want me skipping classes for this.” Joshua chuckles a little. “She almost made me cancel my flight here because she was so against it.”

He tilts his head to the side, darting his eyes forward to prompt Mingyu to look at—oh, it’s Wonwoo, occupied with his phone at the window of a nearby restaurant. The seat in front of him is empty, but it’s dressed in the jacket of something that matches Joshua’s preppy ensemble.

Joshua rests a hand on Mingyu’s shoulder. “Can I tell you something?”

Mingyu is almost taken aback at how wistful Joshua sounds behind his usual smiling face. “Of course.”

”The moment I stepped into this country, I almost burst into tears, you know?”

Mingyu’s pulse jumps, the same way it would if his name was called in a crowd.

“I haven’t been here in years,” Joshua says, “Haven’t _connected_ back in years. But, somehow, I can’t bear to be anywhere else.”

Mingyu sighs a little.

“Sorry, none of that probably makes any sense!” Joshua scrambles, American accent seeping in. “My Korean’s gotten worse since I moved to the—”

Mingyu shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I totally understand. Really.”

Joshua considers this. His gaze searching but unobtrusive. That must be what Wonwoo learned to emulate in form but not in purpose.

Joshua’s eyes quickly find Wonwoo before coming back to Mingyu.

“I’m sure you do.” Joshua grins in a rare, but not uncharacteristic, show of brazenness. His face reads both Chip Skylark choir boy and smug rag tag journalist. “Don’t worry.”

“About what?”

“About what I think you’re worried about. Which, I’ll say again, is something you shouldn’t worry about. We resolved that a long, long time ago.”

Ah, so he knows. Not that Mingyu was ever going to grow up to be particularly sneaky about his heart-sleeve, but it’s still embarrassing to think Joshua hasn't forgotten about it after so long.

“I promise I don’t hate you,” Mingyu says. “Well, I did hate you a little bit. Just a little. Not anymore.”

“It’s honestly a wonder that he hasn’t caught on yet,” Joshua says. “If he has, his knack for abstinence certainly precedes him.”

“Maybe I’m better at hiding it than you think.”

Mingyu colors deeper at the Joshua’s entirely unconvinced scoff.

“You won’t tell him, right?” Mingyu asks.

“Will you?”

“Soon, hopefully.”

"Then..." Joshua mimes zipping his lips, lock and key.

“Good. Otherwise, I’d have to chokehold you right here and now.”

“Did you learn that in the army?”

“Must be nice being a US citizen.”

It’s a humbling exchange for both of them. Truly. Years ago, Mingyu always wondered why it felt like, despite living in the same space, he and Joshua always seemed worlds apart. Maybe it had to do with adolescence, or age, or culture. Maybe it had to do with Wonwoo.

But now, in this small, humble shop of handcrafted jewelry just a few strides away from the common denominator of their lives, Mingyu thinks that he’s finally seeing eye-to-eye with someone who, even in that moment, seems taller than him. Figuratively, thankfully.

“You should go before he thinks someone kidnapped you, a full-grown adult, in the bathroom.” Mingyu opens his arms for a hug Joshua is more than ready for. “Make a Facebook account and friend me already. I’m too used to instant gratification for pigeon carriers.”

Joshua laughs. “If the madness hits, I’ll look you up second.”

Over Joshua’s shoulder, Mingyu sees Seokmin modeling a barbell in a mirror (you figure out where he puts it) with an expression that can only be described as self-absorbed awe. That’s probably as good of a signal as any to let Joshua go.

“You can have him all to yourself when I’m gone,” Josh says, patting Mingyu’s shoulder. “Here’s a secret: Wonwoo’s favorite Disney princess is Sleeping Beauty.”

“Aha, you— wait, what—”

Korean-American prep school Riddler shrugs, clearly with no intention of explaining himself further. He pats Mingyu again on the shoulder in lieu of a wish of luck, adds a “good luck” because Mingyu definitely needed the explicit translation of that gesture. Then he’s out of the store.

From afar, Mingyu can see Joshua return to his seat, expression as bright and gentle as it’s always been. Wonwoo’s face lights up at the sight of his old best-friend-turned-first-crush-turned-best-friend-again-and-only-that-if-that-friend-is-right-hopefully. Even when the food arrives, they don’t stop talking—save for the moment Wonwoo gets up to smack Joshua’s arm about something he’d said.

Joshua’s eyes flit to Mingyu’s direction. Mingyu actually physically flings himself behind the nearest jewelry display, which hides nothing.

“Ooh, these ones make a jingly noise,” Seokmin announces somewhere in the back, probably with unnecessary demonstration. Mingyu almost shushes him on the ridiculous thought that Wonwoo might hear them.

Wonwoo’s eyes never follow in the end. He just throws out an indignant huff at Joshua with a begrudging laugh trailing somewhere behind him, back to his seat.

Mingyu still aches a little seeing the way Wonwoo smiles for someone else. Perhaps it’s learned instinct. Perhaps it’s muscle memory, too. But, now, the feeling is less of the pungent, selfish desire to see through the eyes of someone he’s not.

The only person Mingyu can be is himself. Hopefully, that’s enough.

Apparently, it’s enough to get Wonwoo to corner Mingyu at the smoothie shop outside the gym.

This is Mingyu’s own fault, really, for so easily surrendering his schedule for the semester. It was for club purposes at first, so a more experienced editor (Wonwoo) could meet with him (nearly every day) to discuss photography choices and wording edits (they don’t do any of that anymore, honestly).

Then again, Amateur Vocationalism started fraternizing with Personal Reasons and they haven’t been apart since that one meeting about dinner budget optimization when Mingyu did nothing but look at the new sweater Wonwoo wore. (A low, v-neck cut with three burgundy stripes lining the collar and set on cream-colored wool. It’s Mingyu’s favorite so far.)

Mingyu will be the first to admit that he’s still weak, surprising exactly no one.

“Are you listening?” Wonwoo asks, louder.

“Thanks for calling, but Mingyu’s not home right now,” Mingyu says in possibly the worst imitation of Siri’s disowned second cousin. “Please leave a message after the beep. _Beep._”

Wonwoo takes this as his cue to sit. “That doesn’t work when you’re actually in front of me.”

“Who’s to say I’m actually here? What if I’m astral projecting?”

“Astral projections don’t vibrate at the same rate as physical objects, so we shouldn’t see them. Besides,” Wonwoo pinches Mingyu’s very tangible nose, “Pseudoscience ain’t real, baby. That’s what the ‘pseudo’ is for.”

Either Mingyu’s eyes are about to pop out of his skull or his face has turned into a Red Hot candy without the candy because Wonwoo quickly retracts his fingers like he’d cut off Mingyu’s only breathing pathways. He might as well have, honestly.

For a moment, they sit in silence, Mingyu absently chewing at his straw while Wonwoo pulls out a cigarette and lighter.

“It’s gotten down to half a pack, if you can believe it,” Wonwoo mentions.

“Ah, that’s good,” Mingyu responds.

No one says anything after that. The gloves on Mingyu’s hands feel extra damp right now.

Wonwoo’s lighter is the same one he always uses. The pinky quartz varnish has been worn to a dull gray at the corners, scratches marring the flat faces alongside the occasional splotchy dent. It looks too old for Wonwoo to have used for the odd number of years he has. Might be Mr. Jeon’s. Mingyu remembers seeing him smoke once.

The quiet isn’t uncomfortable, especially given how often they’ve sat in silence together already. But now, there’s something hanging there, expectant, like a weathered wanted notice they won’t even check for bounty.

“Anyway,” Wonwoo clears his throat, glancing at Mingyu’s fiddly, gloved hands before looking down, “I was at the mall yesterday. With Joshua. Joshua Hong?”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, he wasn’t in town long enough for the reunion thing, so we just grabbed lunch and he mentioned running into you and some weirdo who might’ve tried converting him to Satanism?”

Mingyu fights with a lump of mango for speaking rights. “Did Joshua actually say the S word? Did he dissolve into ashes? He can still go to heaven, right? Oh God, he’s throwing away heavenly ascendance for misunderstanding someone else’s misunderstanding of a respectable dietary and lifestyle choice and _it’s all my fault.”_

Wonwoo never ceases to stir up this sort of fluttery sensation in Mingyu’s chest whenever he laughs, as if there’s a mirrored sound in Mingyu’s body that yearns to join in on the fun. There’s something addicting about making Wonwoo laugh.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Wonwoo says. “Do you remember if he, um, said anything? Weird?”

“Sorry?”

“Did he say anything about me to you yesterday?”

Mingyu honestly has nothing of substance to offer; he’s still chewing through what he remembers, which, at this point, is pitifully scarce. But from the near-undetectable narrow of Wonwoo’s eyes to the unmissable press of his lips, Mingyu has become the shadow of Schrodinger’s cat.

To Wonwoo, there’s a chance Joshua spilled something to Mingyu that he shouldn’t have. There’s also a chance he didn’t.

To Mingyu, this is an opportunity.

“If I say he did,” Mingyu says, leaning back slightly with chin slightly upturned, “Will you force it out of me?”

Mingyu would notice the startle in Wonwoo’s shoulders if he wasn’t so focused on keeping his voice level.

“If I say that I would,” Wonwoo reflects, low, prickly, “Will you try to stop me?”

“Depends on what you’d do.”

“Which is contingent on what you know.”

“And wouldn’t you like to be in on that?”

This conversation is locked in roundabout. Mingyu’s jaw sets at the ill-concealed provocation while the glint of Wonwoo’s gaze only deepens into something endless. Yield is improbable. This is a rare moment where Mingyu has cultivated the strength to challenge Wonwoo on a front the latter has historically dominated: the battle of conversation.

By the smirk on Wonwoo’s face, maybe he recognizes that, too. “You smell like sweat and cheap body spray,” he grouses, snatching the smoothie cup from Mingyu’s hand. “Also, your straw-chewing is still gross.”

“And burning your lungs isn’t? Please.”

Wonwoo presses the butt of his cigarette into the ash tray and smiles—no. He _smirks_.

You know that strong front Mingyu mentioned earlier? Yeah, that just about evaporates when Wonwoo takes a sip of Mingyu’s Guava Java Lava without the slightest recoil at the gross chewed-up-ness of the straw. He doesn’t stop sipping until the cup is nearly empty, then he slams it in front of Mingyu, hands crossed over his chest. Smug.

It all seemed so out of character. Wonwoo is daring and certainly familiar with retaliation, but his expertise lay in the ruthless deconstruction of his opponent’s initiation. He never instigates. That’s what it seems like at first.

A man of competitions in his own right, Wonwoo has always been weak to challenges, especially when Mingyu lays it out so plainly like this.

Which is totally fine. Mingyu is a man of culture, of love, and also of challenges. He ain’t about that uncultured, loveless, loser life.

He grabs the smoothie cup with sweeping extravagance, sticks the—at this point _really_ gross—straw into his mouth, and finishes the rest of his lukewarm Guava Java Lava like a champ for honestly no reason because, dude, it’s a smoothie. Then Mingyu slams the now empty cup on the center of the table, his grin so shit-eating that dung beetles should take notes.

Then he realizes what just happened, what exactly he just put in his mouth, and promptly wants to phase through the ground and pop out the other side of the globe. That might be under miles of ocean water, which would totally be fine.

“Gross,” Wonwoo comments.

“Yeah,” Mingyu agrees.

“I did make it worse.”

“Potentially.”

There’s a pause. They kind of just stare at each other, then at the cup, then back at each other.

“So,” Mingyu says, carefully, “Does this mean my smoothie’s on club budget or…?”

You know what Mingyu said about Wonwoo’s laughs earlier? Yeah, that’s voided.

Mingyu realizes that Wonwoo’s baseline laughs (which are still really great, by the way) are understated snickerings at the expense of others’ dumbassery, confusion, embarrassment, or all the above. _This_ is still kind of like that, actually, but in the form of abdomen-curling, chest-heaving, unrestrained howls that can bring a tear to your eyes. It does to Wonwoo, and Mingyu is on his merry way there.

“You,” huff, “really are,” smilier huff, “the _worst.”_

This is dangerous. Oh, no, this is really, really dangerous.

Wonwoo, angled cheeks turned the prettiest, softest shade of rose.

Wonwoo, hair disheveled in all directions, messed up, without his permission.

Wonwoo, head tipped upwards, eyes the slightest more heavy-lidded, lips, apart, _breathing hard_, shirt slipping off just a little as if—

“Sorry, sorry,” Wonwoo says, grinning out the aftermath of his laughter. “Got a little out of control, there. I mean, I guess I could pay for the bit I drank? I’ve got, like, two thousand won on me. In coins.”

The moment Mingyu gets home, he’s taking the most frigid shower he can handle without contracting hypothermia because _yikes_ that just reached several levels of inappropriate. This didn’t even happen when Wonwoo was in Mingyu’s bed that one time—yup, nope, Mingyu is sleeping in the living room tonight.

“Hey, are you okay?” Wonwoo waves a hand between them. Fuck, he sounds worried, too. “I don’t have mouth herpes, I promise.”

Mingyu scrubs a hand against his face. “Thank god, that’s exactly what I was worried about.”

Wonwoo “mhm”s him. After another moment of silence:

“Are you falling asleep?” Wonwoo asks.

Mingyu looks up, confused.

“Should I call up a cab?”

Mingyu shakes his head.

“Wanna take a drag?”

Another head shake.

_“Jeeealousy, turning saints into the sea,”_ Wonwoo starts to sing with his imaginary drums and that’s all Mingyu can take before he, too, starts howling with laughter.

How could Mingyu forget how much punk rock from the early 2000’s could make him laugh? And how much Wonwoo used to shit on him for it back in the day because Wonwoo _loved _early 2000’s punk rock and Mingyu was always being a hater? Then he started taking advantage of that power for his own personal, selfish amusement to make Mingyu pass out from hysterical overload—like now.

That’s not right, though. That’s not the face Wonwoo makes when he revels in manipulation mastery; Mingyu damn well knows that face from how often he sees it.

Even through Mingyu’s squeezed eyes and giggle-squirming, he can still tell that that’s Wonwoo’s face of relief.

When Mingyu is finally done and boneless (and better worded), Wonwoo gets up to toss the stupid smoothie cup into the trash. Good riddance. Mingyu is immediately switching to Kale Apple Paradise with extra chia seeds after tonight.

“C’mon, gym rat, it’s getting late,” Wonwoo says as he helps Mingyu stand. “I’ll walk you back to the dorms. South Wing, right?”

As per gym rat prestige, Mingyu can certainly stand on his own; he didn't double up on weekly leg days for nothing. But you can’t expect him to say no to Wonwoo holding his waist because he thinks that Mingyu, after tripping on his two left feet out of his chair, needs all the support he can get.

God, if that’s the case, Mingyu won't sleep tonight from how aggravatingly cute that is.

The mild exchange of chatter perseveres with them on way to the freshman dorms. No, "perseveres" might not be the right word. _This _is way too natural, too easygoing for any ounce of effort to imply a struggle. It’s almost frightening, just how simple this all is now that Mingyu is actually paying attention to something else besides Wonwoo's face.

This is Wonwoo, telling him stories to stave the stress of coding assignments.

This is Wonwoo, cold eyes both chronic traitors to the fondness behind them.

This is Wonwoo, picky editor and pickier eater who is trying to improve himself for the better and is just so put together and beautiful and well-worded and thoughtful and everything Mingyu imagines he could fall for in another life if his freshman seminar on Intro to Buddhism persuades him that that’s a thing.

Then there’s Mingyu, still learning how to grow up at the ripe age of his kind of-twenties. The two of them are only a year apart, yet the bridge still feels so much wider than that.

How much can he truly change the way he is now? What if it’s not enough? What if _he’s_ not enough?

A block away from the dorm gates, Wonwoo stops them both, says, “Hey, remember when you fell asleep in the clubroom?”

Mingyu does _not_ screech when “sex couch queen” pops into his head in his sister’s gremlin voice.

“Er, yeah,” he says. “Why?”

“What do you remember?”

“That I passed out? It was also dark and you talked to me about, uh, selfishness. I think.”

Wonwoo stops them for a second to study Mingyu’s face. He’s not even remotely close to kissing range-close, but he's definitely close enough for Mingyu to feel warm breaths on his face and notice the fallen eyelash on Wonwoo’s cheek and, _whoa_, yeah, that’s actually really, really close.

Mingyu’s heart clenches like a fist, tight enough to dig into the muscle and hard enough to make piercing crescent marks.

Now? _Now?_

Wonwoo stares back at him, prodding, like the paw of a cat searching for attention or honesty or comfort. In other contexts, Mingyu would usually find this paradox of Wonwoo’s curious silence absolutely fascinating. In _other_ other contexts, Mingyu would somehow convince himself that his foot’s finally in the door after so much kicking, and that Wonwoo might be letting him in if the delusions in Mingyu’s head are in a party mood tonight.

He could do the deed, lean down and swallow the single breath of space between them.

But Mingyu doesn't—can't possibly bring himself to. This isn’t the right time. Not yet.

Just as Mingyu starts pulling back, Wonwoo chases him forward, doesn't push further beyond their noses pressing together—an accident? On purpose? _Wait—_for no longer than a blink’s worth of time.

When Wonwoo steps back, his eyes widen only marginally, almost imperceptible to mere passerby. But, to Mingyu, they might as well be headlights seconds before a highway accident.

Is it shock? Is it shame? What for? The clarity in Wonwoo’s eyes is nothing but an inside joke with Wonwoo himself and Mingyu is chronically none the wiser.

“Alright,” Wonwoo says, stepping back further. His arms look white with cold now that they are no longer wrapped around someone else. “Good night.”

Mingyu stares back, dumbly. “Wait, hyung—”

The acid in Mingyu’s stomach chews away at the walls. Something throbs at the front of his forehead (doubt, remorse, confusion, the desperation to destroy the mountain that suddenly ripped through the tender earth between them like a reverse earthquake—)

“Hyung, please, just—”

“Good night, Mingyu,” Wonwoo repeats, clinical, like a medical diagnosis. “Good night.”

Mingyu is a man of his word. That night, he doesn't fall asleep.

“So,” Minghao starts. “Do you wanna order dumb, reasonably-priced shit on Amazon to feel better?”

Mingyu is back on the counseling couch, back to spooning Minghao’s old people-scented embroidered couch pillow and wondering what he’s done in his life to bring him here. It’s been a hot minute since he’s done this.

“Like what?” Mingyu mutters.

“Well,” Minghao says, “We could get that disembodied boyfriend arm pillow that was marketed as a gag present in the early to mid-2010’s but actually became a boon for those who desired soft, comfortable embrace without the judgment of owning a dakimura pillow nor the exhaustion that comes with a man’s bullshit.”

Mingyu can only poetry slam-snap to that.

“It's Amazon’s Choice,” Minghao adds.

“Thank you,” Mingyu says, “But I’m okay.”

“Are you though?”

“Not really.”

Mingyu doesn’t elaborate. Minghao sighs.

“Alright,” he relents. “The Boy Problem Ban is temporarily lifted.”

Like waters behind a splintered dam, Mingyu’s belly yell just about bursts out of his chest like that one traumatizing scene from _Alien_. Ceiling dust might be falling. Minghao might be ghost-writing Mingyu’s will in his head.

“I don't know what to do anymore, Hao,” Mingyu bemoans. “Hyung’s been avoiding me for ages now. No texts, no calls, no SNS updates—not even a ‘Last seen X minutes ago’ on any messaging apps. Soonyoung and Jun don’t tell me anything no matter how much I bribe them with food and I’m pretty sure Jihoon’s got a soft spot for me but he’s also touchy so no thanks.”

Minghao keeps his mouth shut with great effort.

“It's like Wonwoo disappeared from the surface of the earth,” Mingyu continues, “which isn't cool because that's exactly what _I _want to do right now but I can’t and I’m just. Ugh.”

“Once more, with feeling.”

_“Urrrgghhhhh.”_

“Better?”

“No.”

Minghao sighs. “To be fair, I’d be pretty frustrated, too. If I were Wonwoo.”

Mingyu waits for a follow-up. It doesn’t happen.

“Oh yes, the obligatory omission of information so I’m forced to confront my problems by asking you to elaborate,” Mingyu drawls miserably. “Fine. What do you mean?”

“Have you, in any of your grandiose fantasies and internal dialogues with yourself, ever stopped to think that, maybe—_just maybe—_Wonwoo might have seriously been giving you signals that he likes you, too?”

“Don’t bring Twice into this. They’re my last hope on this empty space rock.”

“Jesus Christ, do you ever shut up and lis— Stop, _stop_, puppy eyes stopped working on me three days into this friendship, asshat—"

Mingyu perks. “Friendship?”

Minghao pinches between his eyes. “Do you enjoy ignoring on people’s input? God, is this what Wonwoo has to go through every time he’s around you? You know the guy’s smart, right? And that you’re as subtle as a billboard?”

“Is this an attack on my forehead?”

_“Mingyu.”_

“Sorry, sorry, I just,” Mingyu blinks through the stickiness in his eyes. “I say shit when I don’t know what else to think. Or do.”

“I know. We _all _know.”

Minghao stands to lean against the armchair of the couch, cards his fingers through Mingyu’s mussed hair until Mingyu stops rubbing his dead face skin into Minghao’s deader grandmother’s couch pillow. Still smells like old people.

“To be frank,” Minghao says, “I think he tried to kiss you.”

Mingyu winces

“Then you pulled back.”

Mingyu shrivels.

“And now he refuses to talk to you because he probably thinks you rejected him, and that you may have been interpreting this near-fictitiously long acquaintance as fully platonic, thereby rendering your relationship with Wonwoo entirely, pitifully unrequited in Wonwoo's disfavor.”

Mingyu actually almost cries from the bandaid-rip narration.

“Based on these observations,” Minghao says, “This might be an S-class case of Poor Communication Skills and Third-Act Misunderstandings, chief. So sorry for your loss.”

Mingyu feels like the stereotypically existential millennial who dodged a bullet he was more than ready to be taken by right between his ribs so he could dramatically flounce to the floor in death. Pathetic.

“What do?” he mutters.

“Well, you said that Jihoon has a soft spot for you,” Minghao offers. “Ask him. He’s probably the only one in their friend group Wonwoo actually listens to when he’s upset.”

“Questionable. Besides, I highly doubt that Jihoon would want to help me with something like this.”

“He’s got a heart somewhere, right?” Minghao says. “If not for you, then for Wonwoo.”

With Mingyu finally unresponsive, Minghao takes it upon himself to take a few steps back, sprint towards the couch, and then launch himself onto Mingyu’s curled-up, emotionally-vulnerable body.

Mingyu cries out in pain. Minghao leans his entire weight down in sadistic comfort.

“You know,” Minghao says rather calmly for someone crushing Mingyu’s ribs, “You’d be surprised at how much people change for the ones they care about.”

(Change blindness.

It’s the failure to recognize something that is different or has changed right in front of your eyes.

This is distinct from inattentional blindness, which is the failure to recognize something that’s been in front of you all along.)

Somewhere along those near-ten-maybe-actually-ten-maybe-more years of chasing and wanting and _hoping_—somewhere along that damn impossible way here—someone fucked up. Probably. Butterfly effect and all that.

Mingyu would automatically out himself as the perpetrator. He’s not wrong, for the most part:

Scaring his new Japan-based pen pal out of anything that could last past loose notebook paper, bad handwriting, and weird kind of-confessions soaked in stupid feelings.

Teleporting himself to Anywhere But Here during his first food journal club meeting because dealing with old stupid feelings is hard.

Literally shutting down what may have been Wonwoo’s attempt to _fucking kiss him what the fuck _because dealing with newer, stupider feelings is much, much harder.

On several, probably unnecessary levels of creative pipe dreams, Mingyu imagined Wonwoo as a special kind of approachable, but also untouchable. He’s someone who can speak to the woes of man yet can never take missteps with all the calculated contingency plans overstuffing that noggin of his. Quiet people always have something going on up there.

It’s no coincidence Wonwoo had a video game phase. It’s no surprise that he hates surprises. Wonwoo is a tactician of honed, understated efficiency. He’s always thinking “What next? What next?”

Surely, Mingyu would often tell himself, Wonwoo knew what he was doing.

That night after the gym was...a bit of a wake-up call, just as so many things seem to be nowadays.

Mingyu would truly be reaching rock bottom-dumbassery if he thought what Wonwoo attempted was anything but a real, proper kiss. The way his eyes fluttered close on instinct instead of intention, the way his fingers trembled at Mingyu’s hip as he leaned forward in anticipation for—

And then Mingyu leaned back. Mingyu is honest to a fault, Wonwoo would say, so the intent of his avoidance must have been clear:

_No_.

Mingyu has come to terms with being a bit of a disaster magnet, but it’s fine. Make enough messes and you start learning to clean them up better. Maybe that’s why he’s a bit of a neat freak.

But Wonwoo isn’t like that. How long did it take to reconcile with Joshua? Is this why his relationship with Seungcheol was so turbulent? Was Mingyu the last straw? Of course it’s taken Mingyu this long realize that all the internal monologues and constant turmoil and questioning every errant thought that moves isn’t just a one-way street.

Like a colony of starving ants, when food for thought is thrown, Wonwoo’s mind ends up following a single, stubborn trail. He miscalculated, he probably thinks. He was wrong to presume that Mingyu would ever choose to kiss him back—to presume Mingyu’s actions as anything more than the loud, friendly affection from their childhood.

For all that Wonwoo’s brain has done for its owner, it’s done a piss poor job of communicating with his heart.

Mingyu, laughably enough, is the exact opposite; his heart steamrolls over everything as his brain arrives fashionably late with the clean-up. This might be the time you say something about complementing each other, something about destiny or fate or whatever other supernatural force people like to name drop when circumstances seem too good to be true.

But leaving things to the universe is always a bad idea.

Mingyu texts Jihoon and Wonwoo that he can’t make the next meeting because of something sudden that popped up.

Wonwoo doesn’t respond. Disappointing but unsurprising.

Jihoon responded okay, whatever, “pay some fucking attention to the lecture you’re in, dumbass” or something around those viciously caring lines. In an incredible power move, Mingyu left him on read.

Not on purpose, obviously, because Mingyu’s a better person than that. He’s just a little wound up from his _stupid fucking emotions just put me out of my misery already—_

Oh, yeah, and his old swim captain from high school is dragging him around campus because “I’m visiting my sister but she can only get into the arts buildings and I want to see the greenhouse and gosh diddly _darn_, how could I not hang out with the cutest little backstroke swimmer I know!”

Nayoung doesn’t actually speak like that. Also, Mingyu is a non-STEM pleb, so the open-access biology pond is all she’s getting.

“Chill fam,” says the real Nayoung, squatting beside the still water with interest. “You already told them something came up. ‘S nothing weird. These turts got names?”

Mingyu is pacing beside her, boring holes into his phone with his eyes as she leisurely photographs Leonardo and Donatello. Mingyu murmurs something about how Raphael doesn't like people and Michelangelo is…somewhere. Lurking.

“You’re stressing out the turtles,” she says dryly. “And me.”

“You don’t understand, noona,” Mingyu croaks. Still no new messages. “One of them has the potential to murder me, and the other one is already murdering me slowly. Neither of them like surprises.”

“The turtles?”

“_No_, these two guys in my club who probably take university extracurriculars far too seriously. This is a nightmare and I’m fragile.”

“And I’m strong enough to bench press my girlfriend without my spine snapping,” Nayoung says insouciantly. “You make your club mates sound like psychopaths, or dare I say, jealous girlfriends.”

When Mingyu doesn't give a response, even when she looks at him for one, she nearly falls into the pond trying to get up.

“‘Fess. Now.”

Mingyu squeaks out, “Not psychopaths?”

Nayoung makes an astonished O-face, which would be endearing if she wasn't hitting his chest in rapid-fire succession. She could _definitely_ bench press Xiyeon.

“Oh my god oh my god _oh my god_,” Nayoung hisses as she pushes Mingyu to the nearest bench, “Are you, Backstroke Flower Boy with a Capital BACK who was notoriously, stubbornly single throughout his high career—” then, with feeling, “_smitten?”_

Mingyu abstains from answering, which only seems to rile Nayoung up more.

“One of them?” she presses, “Ooh, or _both_, I can respect that—”

“No no, just the one,” Mingyu is quick to correct like an idiot. She grips onto his shoulders like a rollercoaster safety bar.

“Tell me,” she demands, flat intonation a vast contrast to how violently she’s shaking him back and forth. “I need to know just who cracked your impenetrable shield and rescued you from your self-imposed man-cave of bachelorhood. Slow murder guy, right? I can’t pin you as someone into explosive types. You’d take things slow. I’m right, right? Oh my god, I’m right.”

People figuring out Mingyu’s crush with literally next to no information is something he’s getting used to.

As if in empathy, all four pond turtles have swum to the edge nearest Mingyu and Nayoung. The one named Raphael makes a chirpy noise—a benediction, perhaps? Mingyu bows his head in gratitude.

“What’d he say?” Nayoung murmurs.

“Why would I know? I don’t speak turtle.”

“That was a joke.”

“Was it? I couldn’t tell.”

It’s at this point that Nayoung has migrated her hands to Mingyu’s face to continue her physical insistences that, excuse him, she’s funny as hell! Who does he think _he_ is? Yoo Jae Suk? Mingyu remembered having the time of his life whenever she did this to the rowdier teammates back then, especially those twice her size because she forced someone to bring her a chair she could stand on before unleashing her wrath at eye-level.

Being on the receiving end is markedly less enjoyable. Still funny, though.

“Hello, please move. I need to pass through here.”

With the exception of now. Now, it’s distinctly unfunny.

“Wurnwroo,” Mingyu says through squished cheeks. Nayoung quickly retracts her hands. Mingyu scrambles to his feet. “Wonwoo,” he tries again. “What, what’re you doing here?”

“This is the shortcut I use after club meetings to go home,” Wonwoo states neutrally. He looks at Nayoung and dips his head. “Nice to meet you. I’m Wonwoo, a sunbae of Mingyu’s."

Sunbae. _Sunbae?_

Nayoung can’t even get to reciprocate the gesture because Mingyu cuts right in.

“This is Nayoung,” he recites briskly. “She captained my high school swim team, but only during my first year. I haven’t seen her since then, until now. She’s visiting her sister who goes here but that sister is taking an exam right now so she asked me to bring her to the greenhouse but I obviously can’t do that so I brought her to see the, um, turtles. Which we just saw. They’re great. Also she has a cat named Mr. Mittensworth.”

"_Sir_ Mittensworth."

"Whatever."

Wonwoo nods, glancing cursorily between Mingyu and the girl not really standing behind him anymore. She offers a small wave.

“Good to know,” Wonwoo says, slowly. “I’m going home.”

“Want me to walk with you? It’s getting dark.”

“I’m an adult male of considerable height wearing nondescript clothes. I’ll be fine.”

“Nayoung’s leaving soon.”

“Maybe you should walk her home, then.”

“She’s meeting her sister for dinner. Maybe we can grab a bite?”

“There was food at the meeting already.”

“Wonwoo—”

Before Mingyu realizes it, he’s already pinching the sleeve of Wonwoo’s shirt just as Wonwoo starts walking away.

“Hyung,” he says, brain and voice box both drawing a blank. He doesn’t know why he falls back on saying that—Wonwoo, _hyung_, like they’re the last things on his mind when nothing else comes up.

Wonwoo turns his head, but keeps his gaze down. “Please let me go.” He sounds tired.

“Hyung,” Mingyu rasps pathetically. A heat blooms in the space behind his eyes. “Hyung. _Hyung.”_

Wonwoo jerks his arm away. He briefly offers Nayoung another polite bow before striding down the gravel path.

When some time has passed, Nayoung comes up to Mingyu. He hasn’t moved. She doesn’t touch him.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I shouldn’t have asked you to hang out so suddenly.”

Mingyu shakes his head, lets Nayoung guide him back to the bench. “It’s not your fault. I think he’s smart enough to know that, too. We just,” he sucks in all the gunk in his nose he didn’t realize was there, “We’ve been walking on eggshells for a while. We haven’t talked about, y’know. Feelings.”

“Does he like you back?”

“If he did, not anymore.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe the reason why he left like that is because he likes you a lot,” Nayoung offers. “Or maybe he’s conflicted between considering me potential romantic rival material versus scolding himself for following heteronormative expectations of male-female interactions more intimate than those of complete strangers. That’s pretty normal around here.”

Mingyu can only give her a pity chuckle. Nayoung knows this isn’t something she can pep-talk away with a hearty smack to the arm for good measure. Mingyu knows that, too.

“I need to,” Mingyu says, struggling terribly, “I need to tell Wonwoo that I— _that I—”_

The rest is tied up in knots, like a snake trying to eat itself gone.

Mingyu vaguely wonders if a snake can die from its own poison.

“Of course not,” Minghao says, ironically enough, without venom. “Evolution’d be really shitty to snakes if they couldn't handle their own bodies.”

“That's fair,” Mingyu says to the ceiling of Minghao’s apartment. “I was never good at metaphors.”

Minghao nods. “You weren’t.”

“I know I said that I owed you,” Jihoon says, sipping at his iced tea, “But your problems with Wonwoo aren’t my business.”

Mingyu had texted asking Jihoon to meet at a coffee shop if he was free. Considering that Jihoon, despite his generally acerbic rhetoric, is actually pretty reasonable, Mingyu imagined this going a lot more smoothly. It’s not.

“Wonwoo and I just need to talk,” Mingyu reasons, distraught. “He isn’t answering my texts or calls. He leaves all his classes early. He isn’t showing up to meetings. Hell, I thought of stopping by his apartment but I don't want to back him into a corner like that.”

Jihoon continues sipping at his unproblematic drink.

“Please,” Mingyu tries again. “We both keep letting misunderstandings happen because we don’t talk. I mean, we do talk, a lot, which is nice, but we still haven’t _talked_ talked and it’s driving both of us—”

“Insane. I know. There’s collateral damage,” Jihoon interjects exasperatedly. “Maybe Wonwoo needs time to think and doesn’t want to deal with your word vomit right now. I’ve talked to you for five minutes and I already feel like I ran a marathon.”

Mingyu sits back, eyes to his lap. “I’m sorry. I just,” he heaves a sigh, “I panic easily. When it comes to Wonwoo.”

“No shit.”

Jihoon uncrosses his legs, recrosses them, makes tapping sounds against the arm of his chair like he’s waiting for something. Mingyu can’t think straight enough to come up with a backup plan.

“Why are you bothering to do this?” Jihoon asks.

At first, the question bewilders Mingyu. He’s been playing the broken record player for the past half an hour already, repeating the same explanations he’d practiced prior to seeing Jihoon in the hope that something—_anything—_sticks. As Jihoon said, Mingyu has this stupid habit of streaming his consciousness instead of sieving out the bullshit to say what’s really important. He had to have something coherent to say.

But this is Jihoon.

What he said, what he offered, was a prompt.

Mingyu could conjure something as superficial as wanting to “fix things” or “clear the air.” Mingyu could proclaim a saudade fantasy for the adolescence he is no longer living in and voice out all the chicken-scratch attempts at expressing what he wants to express in convoluted, figurative ways in the hope that, maybe, they would impress Wonwoo.

Or, instead of being a coward who relies on easy escapes and half-baked metaphors that never really fit him in the first place, Mingyu could finally gather up the scraps of his reckless, risk-taking courage to stop waiting for the right time because there will never be a “right time” until Mingyu fucking forges that moment himself in a way only he can.

“I would tell you why,” Mingyu says, feeling that familiar, sweet ache bleed into his chest, “But I’d like Wonwoo to hear it first.”

Jihoon pauses, uncrosses his legs.

“Fine,” he says. “Give me a time and place.”

**Jihoon**  
Yo wanna grab dinner Friday night?  
Senior thesis is fucking killing me and I need a break.

**wonline**  
Yeah ofc  
Any dinner prefs?

**Jihoon**  
Been craving some spicy food.  
So I can die before my advisor can read my shitty writing.  
There’s a deokkbokki place I want to try near Dongsan Park, next to the Coffee Bene.  
7?

**wonline**  
There’s a deokkbokki place there? Huh never knew  
And yeah 7 sounds good

**Jihoon**  
You’ll miss it if you’re not looking for it.  
Great, see you then.

From afar, Mingyu lets himself commit to memory what he sees. It’s been a while since he’s seen Wonwoo dressed up like this.

Several days ago, when Wonwoo ran into Mingyu and Nayoung, he was dressed plainly—oversized white tee over gray sweats, graying socks stuck into raggedy house slides. He didn’t have earrings on. His wrists were bare. If Mingyu wasn’t brimming with panic at the time, he’d probably think about pressing his lips to the veins there.

Instead, tonight, it's a collared shirt colored burgundy wine, loosely tucked into dark, tight jeans and layered beneath a long, fluttering coat. Laced boots gleam with the reflection of the lampposts. His hair is brushed back. There's a chain on his right ear. It's always the right ear.

Fuck, Wonwoo is stunning. He always is, really, even in nothing but pajamas, a head cold, and snippy tone. But there’s something enthralling about the purpose he channels into his looks sometimes, like he knows just how to look the way he does. Even if Wonwoo’s choices are less intentional than they are personal taste, that doesn't detract from how many versions of him Mingyu seems to fall for.

The deep, nonstop ache in Mingyu’s ribcage is unmistakable. There's only one thing he can do about it.

“Where is Jihoon,” is the first thing Wonwoo says. It’s not a question.

“Ah, well,” Mingyu rubs the back of his neck, “He said he couldn’t make it?”

“Bullshit,” is the tart response, but it isn't angry. Maybe a little pissed, maybe a lotta tired, but there is never any hate. “You're not going to take ‘no’ for an answer, I’m guessing.”

“I’m not stopping you, but I would like to talk. If you don’t mind.”

Wonwoo says nothing, doesn’t move.

“I’m paying,” Mingyu adds.

Wonwoo looks away, perhaps in defeat. When you’re a poor college student, it’s always hard to argue against a free dinner.

Mingyu opens the door to the restaurant, gestures an offer to enter, and Wonwoo reluctantly accepts.

Calling the place a “restaurant” might be giving the tight squeeze too much credit.

It’s a place that prides itself in quality over quantity, which two too many patrons seemed to want tonight. All seats are occupied when they arrive, so Mingyu suggests they order first then eat in the park. Wonwoo doesn't give an answer, but he does follow Mingyu to the nearest park bench.

Mingyu has already vacuumed through half his food before realizing he hasn’t spoken since ordering.

“So,” he starts, swallowing. “Want my fish cake?”

“Why are you here, Mingyu?”

Okay. He’s cutting to the chase. That’s fine. Mingyu is prepared. Very prepared.

(He is, in fact, not that prepared.)

“I thought that,” Mingyu says, swallowing. “I thought that, uh, maybe we should talk? Maybe?”

“You said ‘maybe’ twice.”

“I did. But it works like a double negative—rather than twice as unsure, I’m actually extra sure.”

“Right,” Wonwoo says, tone stale. When Mingyu doesn’t reply, he adds, “Go on.”

“What?”

“Talk.”

“Oh!” Mingyu colors severely. “Yes, I’ll, uh, do that.”

He clears his throat in the noisiest way possible. Maybe it'll scare his nerves down to cooperation.

“I, I, uh, you’ve been avoiding me.”

Fuck, that sounds too direct.

“I don't understand why.”

_That_ just sounds stupid.

“I’m sorry if I did anything wrong?”

He gives himself a mental pity clap. Great start, Mingyu.

A breeze dribbles past them. Like raw parchment to bleach, the artificial white of the lamppost light rinses away what life is left on Wonwoo’s face. Mingyu doesn't like it.

Wonwoo gets up. Tosses his empty paper bowl into the nearby trashcan. The width of his back faces Mingyu with a rippling tautness that mirrors what’s probably clamping down on both their throats.

“Why do you even care so much?” Wonwoo manages. If it weren’t so quiet where they are, Mingyu probably wouldn’t have heard him.

Mingyu stays seated. “You’re,” he pauses, does his damned best to keep his brain connected to his mouth, “You’re really important to me, hyung. One of the most important people in my life.”

Wonwoo scoffs, probably rolling his eyes like he’s heard this exact same banality already, several times over, just as empty with conviction as Mingyu had expressed it. And maybe Wonwoo _has_ heard it that many times, just from people who aren’t Mingyu.

“Touching,” Wonwoo says, monotone. “Are we done?”

He waves a hand, noncommittal, uncaring. It stings to see and makes something ugly flare up in the pit of Mingyu’s stomach.

“No,” he answers firmly. “We’re not.”

Mingyu forces himself to stand and strides up until a few steps right behind Wonwoo. He says nothing until Wonwoo exhales and turns around.

Up close, he looks the most tired Mingyu has ever seen him.

“You’re not talking to me, hyung,” Mingyu explains as calmly as he can muster. “You’re not answering any of my texts or calls. You’ve got some good friends, too, because they haven’t told me anything, either—“

“Jihoon’s a traitor.”

“He gave me an option that wasn’t breaking down your door!”

Composure is slipping like sand through a broken hourglass. There are too many thoughts at war for control over Mingyu’s mouth, but wars never really solved anything.

“I’m not lying,” Mingyu insists. “I know I’m not good with words and I can’t express myself very well sometimes. But I meant it when I said you mean a lot to me. I— it’s just—“

Mingyu closes his eyes to breathe because god knows he forgets to sometimes.

“I can’t stand us being like this. I miss you.”

Wonwoo’s face stays perfectly straight, untouched by the sickening sincerity in Mingyu’s hidden pleas—except for his eyes. Everything in them is vehemently, devastatingly red.

“Fine,” Wonwoo concedes like there's a gun pointed to his throat, “What do you want to know? That I’m tired? That my patience has run so thin it makes me look and feel like a shitty Your Mama’s so Fat joke?”

A grenade has been set off. Mingyu feels his body seize into itself.

“I kept the letters,” Wonwoo hisses with a painful falter, “All of them. I’ve read every single one at least five times because I was a coward who couldn't bring myself to do anything else knowing that I would never see you again. Breaking news! Still a coward!”

_No, that's me, I’ve been the coward! I am! _Mingyu so desperately wants to say, but the deep-set pinch between Wonwoo’s brows, the infuriated turn of his mouth and palpable exhaustion everywhere, evaporates Mingyu’s voice entirely.

“But then you come here,” Wonwoo just about snaps, “Like the personification of a one in a billion chance, you strut into this university like god’s personal entourage carried you here themselves. And what happens? We meet. We eat. You look at me like this and I look at you back but all that stupid looking doesn’t do a fucking thing because _nothing_ has changed.”

“That’s not true—“

Wonwoo’s eyes are almost purple now with warning.

“It’s not?” Wonwoo echoes, madly astounded. He laughs a little, but it’s anything but humored. “What happened after I was a plague victim and you played babysitter? Or board game night? Do you think I’d go to a farmer’s market at eight AM just for the shits and giggles? How about the time I tried to plant one on you after the gym? _Hell, _I _already_ planted one on you when you slept in the clubroom because I’m also a creepy _asshole—"_

Mingyu’s mouth immediately parches dry.

“Tell me," Wonwoo says, quiet. "Have you even picked up on any of that?”

“I,” Mingyu starts but doesn’t continue.

“Open your damn eyes for once.” Wonwoo's voice trembles like ripples in still water. “This is the same. _We_ are the same. This is exactly how we were years ago, doing this never-ending dance around each other until—_congratulations!—_one of us has finally cracked from it all.”

“Hyung—”

Wonwoo faces away so he can fire out the last of his bullets in peace: “So what if I’ve been avoiding you? So what if I’m angry? How else can you expect me to react? It's been _years_, Mingyu. Years of wondering and wondering and _hoping _all the damn time because you make it so fucking easy to hope—”

Wonwoo finally sucks in a breath; it sounds dangerously loud and wet and snotty. He rubs a hand over what’s left of his perfectly cracked perfect mask.

After a moment, Wonwoo turns to face Mingyu again:

“Surely,” he utters quietly, almost pleading. “Surely, it's painfully obvious by now.”

He sounds so ashamed, like he’d done something wrong. Like he’s been in lo—

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no no no _no_.

Mingyu’s limbs move before he can speak, veins empty of everything but the overwhelming, adrenaline-wrecked hysteria of seeing tears fall on Wonwoo’s face.

“Hyung,” Mingyu murmurs, _begs_, the same wet dread pooling in him. “Hyung.”

Mingyu thumbs away the gathering droplets at Wonwoo’s eyes. Wonwoo swipes the hands away but Mingyu is stubborn and keeps trying.

“Stop,” he demands weakly. “Just, don’t.”

“Why?”

“I’m too old for this. My heart can’t take it.”

“You’re only in your twenties,” Mingyu says.

“You make me feel like I’m going to an early grave,” Wonwoo says back.

He lets Mingyu lead him back to the bench, lets Mingyu awkwardly sweep his legs across Wonwoo’s lap and cling his arms to Wonwoo’s shoulders because he’s always been letting Mingyu get away with these things, hasn’t he? Realizing this, amongst a myriad of other things, makes Mingyu press his face into the junction between Wonwoo’s neck and shoulder because he can’t bear to look up.

“I’m sorry,” Mingyu mumbles as he glares at the growing tear stains on Wonwoo’s shirt. “Hyung, I’m so sorry. I didn’t— it wasn’t—” he shudders a breath to find his words. “Whenever I thought about it, it always seemed impossible. It still feels that way. But I _have_ thought about it. I haven't been able tostop thinking about it all this time.”

Wonwoo freezes rigid, so rigid that Mingyu can feel the joints almost spike through Wonwoo’s clothes at the places the two of them are connected. Then, ease befalls Wonwoo.

“Mingyu,” he says softly. “Oh, Mingyu.”

“Fuck, that was so lame wasn’t it? God, I’m just so lame and bad at talking and you’d think I could blame it on military time or whatever but I’ve been like this since the birth certificate so I have no excuses—_”_

Wonwoo strokes a hand through Mingyu’s hair. He rubs the pads of his fingers in gentle circles before bringing the hand to rest at the hairline. He traces it with reverence in a way that makes Mingyu feel liquid and tense at the same time.

“Mingyu,” Wonwoo says. “Mingyu, I—”

“Stop! Stop,” Mingyu suddenly panics. He clutches onto Wonwoo’s clothes, as if what Wonwoo is going to say next will suddenly end everything all at once. “Sorry. Again. I just. I want to say it first. Can I? Please?”

Wonwoo huffs a little. He pushes Mingyu away enough so he can swipe the heel of his palms beneath Mingyu’s watery, swollen eyes.

“Alright,” he says, his own eyes curling like two upside-down smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was in physical pain when i wrote this chapter


	6. dalgona & ginger tea (pt. 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware of excessive dialogue, overuse of “sunbae” and em dashes, and **the change in rating.** Also, mild trigger warning for particularly harsh language, but it’s super short dw.
> 
> Thanks again for your patience and see you on the other side!

“Okay, just,” Mingyu breathes, gulping, “Hold on a sec.”

“Take your time,” Wonwoo offers. “I’ll be here.”

A soreness radiates from Mingyu’s muscles, minuscule tears an artifact of how much work he’s put into this very moment. It feels like he’s learning to swim for the first time—dive with the correct posture, close his throat, gasp for oxygen, balance instinct with control in every part of his body just so he can do anything but drown. This time, Wonwoo isn't on the bleachers.

Mingyu draws a breath into his chest. He guzzles the night air down like a medicinal swallow of gin until his lungs are on the edge of overflowing.

“When you talked to that pigeon at the convenience store and you didn’t even know I-I existed y-yet,” Mingyu stutters, face burning, “I thought you were so cool-looking and mature and I didn’t know kids our age could look like that.”

There’s an intake of breath somewhere between them.

“Then you started sharing your stories with me,” Mingyu says. “You ate out with me after class, and took care of my sister, and somehow made swimming not feel like a shitty after-school activity my parents made me do but instead something worth doing because I could look forward to seeing you after almost every match. You made middle school a time of my life I could—_can—_look back on and smile about even if it hurt my heart every single time, but it’s worth it because you’re always there in that part of my life and, and—”

Mingyu presses his heated eyes closed. The seam of his eyelids feels like molten iron.

“Now I—now, I still smile and my heart still hurts but in different ways because somehow we’re adults and my heart doesn’t hurt as much as before but it still does because you’re here again and you’re so much _more_ you than before with your wit and thoughtfulness and _voice_ which just drives me up the fucking wall in the best way possible and—god, I don’t even know what the hell I’m saying anymore and I’m just babbling even though I made a list in my head because _you_ make lists which is also really cool—shit, this is so lame, god, I’m so sorry, I really—I wanted this to be better and it’s not, I’m—”

“It’s fine,” says Wonwoo with a comforting squeeze to the base of Mingyu’s neck. “You’re doing fine.”

Mingyu is shaking so much at this point that he might phase into the fourth dimension. The recognition of his own body is entirely contingent on where he and Wonwoo are touching.

“You make making you smile a game I could play forever,” Mingyu says, near-dizzy now on his own blathering, “and your words are something I could listen to just as forever and I sure as hell don’t know when liking you as a friend turned into loving you as more and maybe it’s both and I’m just a dumbass and slow and realizing that _everything_ about you is my favorite part, but I just—I’m just—”

He heaves a breath, warm tears pooling and pouring out with his words like everything that’s accumulated in his poor, tired body for god knows how long.

“I’m just so happy it happened—that _we_ happened—because it’s _you_ and you’re _you _and _you_ are one of the best people I could have ever come to love the way I do.”

Mingyu isn’t sobbing, but the tears just won’t stop.

“I love you,” Mingyu gushes with everything left to bare. “God, I love you so, _so_ much. It’s been so many years but I’m still so stupidly in love with you that I don’t know what to do with myself anymore.”

Mingyu’s words are all offered homestay in air, suspended and aglow like fairy lights or will-o-wisps or the way dust reflects light in an attic untouched for ages. And, carefully, they float away with the evening breeze—a gentle stream to clean the smoke. Wonwoo has been easing out of that smoking habit these days, but Mingyu still feels so full of it.

Under his breath, Wonwoo is humming. Mingyu remembers him doing that during Minseo’s sick days to help her sleep. It reverberates against the front of Mingyu’s body, where they’re pressed together like confused but comfortable puzzle pieces.

A few passerby with their dogs stare at them: one maybe-adult koala-hugging another on a park bench in the middle of the night. Someone is singing something. The other definitely has a study session the next morning.

“You okay?” Wonwoo asks.

“Peachy,” Mingyu sniffs.

“Is it my turn now?”

“Knock yourself out. Surely, you can’t be as bad as me.”

“You don’t know that.”

Mingyu closes his mouth. He really doesn’t know that.

Wonwoo shifts their bodies so that he’s wrapped around Mingyu just as much as Mingyu is wrapped around him. He starts rubbing his hands across the curve of Mingyu’s back and it feels so, so comforting.

“Do you remember,” Wonwoo starts, “that email you got at the beginning of the year? The one about us being partners for The Spoon?”

“Yeah. Best email I’ve ever gotten.”

”We weren't matched up by chance.”

Mingyu’s breathing stutters, which is bad because he more or less emptied his lungs not long ago.

“Or perhaps we were,” Wonwoo ponders, “Given where we ended up after middle school. But the journal? Well, there are some things I couldn’t leave to chance anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first meeting is an opportunity for upperclassmen to get to know interested underclassmen,” Wonwoo explains as if this absolute mess of whatever-the-hell-are-feelings is just a normal conversation. “Then we pick who we want pair up with. Managing team has a say in selections, of course, but I don’t think anyone was fighting me for you.”

Mingyu snorts. “Because I almost shit myself after seeing you then _nyoom_-ed out that room like Sonic the Coward?”

“Because I wanted to be with you the moment I saw you,” Wonwoo corrects, so easy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I even made Jihoon approve of the assignment before anyone else’s, just to be sure.”

“Are you—how did you convince Jihoon?”

“Jihoon may be scary, but I can be, too.”

“No, you’re just too hot, so people feel intimated.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Wonwoo returns to stroking Mingyu’s hair for a while, in silence, to the distant sounds of chirping crickets and the low, electric buzz of the lampposts looming beside them.

“I guess I didn’t think much of you early on, after Joshua’s fifteenth birthday party,” Wonwoo admits, slowly. “I thought you were just a nervous little kid with a cute smile. You had a big heart, too, and I admired that. Then I saw you swim for the first time. As a strictly non-athlete with pipe cleaners for bones, I thought you were incredible. Everyone was so much bigger than you then. You were the only first-year to qualify for finals, and you placed, too. Do you remember crying? After getting your medal?”

“God, how could I not? I cried so much, I passed out when I got home.”

“I don’t know why, but I wanted to hug you. You’d think that that’s normal, after seeing someone cry. But it was so,” Wonwoo pauses, fingertips faltering at the crown of Mingyu’s head. “The feeling was so visceral. I wanted run down the bleachers, pull you off the podium and wipe your face—tell you that you did great. I had no idea how to explain it.”

When Wonwoo pulls back just enough to look eye-to-eye, Mingyu forces out an exhale. It’s too much, hearing and seeing this all at once.

“For so long, I struggled with my feelings for people,” Wonwoo confesses, “For the girls I liked growing up. For Josh, the only boy who didn’t tease those girls and said nice things to me when I didn’t say anything at all. For faceless college students looking for a quick fix and for others full of faces I can’t not remember. And for you, who had the cutest smile and the biggest heart and who put his all into everything that he did no matter what happened next—both then and now.”

“So you…weren’t disappointed?” asks Mingyu, “When you saw me again?”

“How could I be?” Wonwoo chuckles. “You grew up, yeah, and I nearly had an aneurysm from how different you look now compared to before, but all my favorite parts of you stayed the same.”

“You had favorite parts?”

“I did. Very many.”

All Mingyu can do is cough out a coarse, bashful laugh.

“I suspected that you liked me, you know,” says Wonwoo. “You’re awful at hiding things—_hey_, you know it’s true. But when the thought, ‘Oh, maybe I could like him back,’ came to mind, it didn’t feel weird. I couldn’t stop thinking about why that was. Years passed. And then I saw you again, all towering and built instead of the munchkin who always stole my banana chips and milk at lunch. Two new thoughts popped up. Do you know what they could be?”

“Was it: ‘God, who the fuck is _that_ asshole?’ or ‘That trench coat? With those loafers?’”

“The second one, definitely, at some point.”

Wonwoo leans forward so much that Mingyu’s stomach nearly jumps into his less accommodating throat because _oh god was he going to kiss me? _Is_ he going to kiss me? Shit, he already has but now I’m actually conscious._

_“_What I really thought was, ‘Ah, he’s grown up. He’s not the same Mingyu I knew before.’ After that, I thought, ‘Why does my heart still beat so fast?’”

“Hyung—”

Wonwoo finally lets his forehead rest on Mingyu’s. He’s smiling now and his nose scrunches a little and, honest to god, it’s still one of the best things Mingyu has and will ever lay his eyes on.

“I don’t know when it happened, or why, or how,” Wonwoo says. His fingers are fully spread on Mingyu’s neck now, tugging, insistent, _wanting_, “And you made everything so easy and _so_ fucking difficult all the time, with the food deliveries and shitty signals and closeness with other people I could never figure out. You were unbearable. _I_ was unbearable. All of _this_ was unbearable.”

“I’m sorry,” Mingyu mumbles.

“I am, too,” Wonwoo mumbles back. “But.”

“But?”

“But you know what?”

“What?”

Wonwoo presses their noses together—this is the second time it's happened, like a frustrated alarm of longing. His expression is replete with golden hour kitchen tile teeth and endlessly deep abyss eyes. He, too, has grown around the parts Mingyu loved the most.

“I love you,” Wonwoo says, as clear and as sincere as he’s ever been. “I love you whole a lot. And I’m really, really glad that you love me, too.”

There it is. Oh, there it is.

Mingyu lets go of _everything_ in his body just so he can overfill himself again but this time with relief. It’s so overwhelming that he just about collapses on top of Wonwoo on this rickety park bench in the middle of the night.

Mingyu is laughing. Above Wonwoo, he’s laughing the choppiest, ugliest, happiest laugh that has ever left his grinning mouth but he doesn’t care because Wonwoo just—he just—

_Wonwoo just said he loved me_, Mingyu faintly tells himself.

He’s so starry-eyed and over the moon and every other cheesy fucking space metaphor he can think of because everyone knows originality is dead anyway. Mingyu has never really been a writer in the first place and Wonwoo’s more than qualified to take that title instead—

So there’s nothing in this amazing, breath-taking moment that stops Mingyu from saying:

“Does this mean senpai noticed me?”

Wonwoo’s expression evolves into something quietly, precisely, startlingly vicious from his gleaming eyes to his instinctive scowl—which, you know, hot.

Then Wonwoo just about snarls:

“Shut the fuck up and _kiss me_ already,” before he surges upwards and pulls Mingyu down without giving the guy a damn chance to do it.

But it’s fine. It’s fine. This is all so beautifully, wonderfully, deliciously fine.

Wonwoo leans away, offers up a second, lush chance, and Mingyu puts his all into following through—because god knows he’d be an absolute fool not to.

**mingupingu**  
hey u up  
i know we had that talk like an hour ago  
but  
like  
everythibg that jsut happend was legit right  
it wasnt just a fever dream ?

**wonline**  
If this is your way of telling me that you’re actually sick  
And that we swapped spit WHILE you were sick  
Then I will personally dispose of your body in a dining hall trash room

**mingupingu**  
EW HYung y u gotta put it like that  
u wer so romantic earlier what happened

**wonline**  
Courtship stage is over so I can be more honest now  
Honeypie

**mingupingu**  
yikes is this how pet names are gonna be like bc thats just disappointing  
low effort 2/10 not enough dugeun dugeun in the kokoro

**wonline**  
Excuse you da fuq, you beanstalk

**mingupingu**  
thats more like it ❤️  
actually srsly tho ty for tonight  
im rly glad we talked  
luv u  
like for realsies

**wonline**  
Glad it wasn’t for fakesies  
And you’re alright I guess

**mingupingu**  
i demand !! more romance!!! u made me suffer as much as i made u suffer

**wonline**  
Fine  
🙆🏻  
That’s me trying to give you a heart with my arms but they’re too short so you get an O instead  
Now go to sleep

**mingupingu**  
fine fine  
WAIT  
question

**wonline**  
No I will not send nudes

**mingupingu**  
dammit  
anotha one: does this mean that last nights dinner is on club budget or what

**wonline**  
Wtf why do you keep asking that  
Are you dating me just so you get more free food on journal club outings?  
Outrageous, we’re breaking up

**mingupingu**  
not a chance bb we’re in this together  
i waited too long u aint gettin away that easy  
also i think my eyes r shriveling up from all the blue light ive burned them with today  
ur fault tbh but thags ok bc i luv ya  
good night!!!!!  
❤️❤️❤️

**wonline**  
Good night  
See you soon  
🙆🏻

“Hey,” Wonwoo greets.

“Hi,” Mingyu greets back.

“Really?” Seokmin accuses. “In front of my cereal?”

“We literally just said hello,” is Mingyu’s perfectly valid answer. “I say hello to you all the time.”

Seokmin tries to narrow his eyes intimidatingly, but it just comes off as crusty squinting because mornings be like that sometimes. “Not with the intention of honeymoon canoodling,” he argues.

“That’s not—”

“And hallway sex.”

“Oh my god, what, _no—”_

“And caffeinated smooches.”

Wonwoo shrugs, the two iced Americanos in his hands making chime-like noises at the motion. “Got me there.”

“Which one?” Seokmin asks.

“Your guess,” Wonwoo answers.

Mingyu flushes. Seokmin looks like he wants to die.

It’s the morning after The Great Confession and Mingyu somehow finds Wonwoo at the door of his and Seokmin’s dorm. Wonwoo is fully dressed in a half-effort kind of way with his loose sweatshirt, looser sweatpants, and jet-black face mask obscuring his mouth. But his eyes glitter above the dark circles and under the artificial hallway lights and maybe they’re crinkling a bit, too, behind stray curls of hair at the idea of coffee kisses—and, well, Mingyu thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever woken up to on a too-early Saturday morning.

“Ignore him, he’s allergic to public displays of non-platonic affection,” Mingyu says dismissively, ignoring the sour-puss “If _you _weren’t so stingy with _your_ cuddles since enlistment, we wouldn’t be in this predicament,” behind him.

Mingyu steps into the hallway, closes the door behind him, and rests his back against it.

“Less than twenty-four hours in and you’re already getting me iced coffee,” Mingyu muses, giddy.

“Less than twenty-four hours in and I’m already seeing you shirtless,” Wonwoo counters, mild. “And we’re not even at a pool.”

Ah. Right.

Mingyu is, embarrassingly enough, dressed only in some ratty plaid house pants and the last vestiges of his dignity; even his bare feet suffer the toe-curling consequences of interfacing with cold linoleum. Years of changing room fiascos and strict training schedules have dulled Mingyu’s discomfort with showing skin, yet there’s a latent crawl of red up his neck now that…stuff happened.

Mingyu crosses his arms over his chest, half in shyness with the hallway so chilly and half in well-earned bravado because upper body days have been good to him lately.

“Win-win situation?” he ends up saying, rocking forward on his heels.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Wonwoo replies, rocking backwards. Mingyu’s chest flips at the rouge tips of Wonwoo’s ears.

Mingyu vaguely realizes that his head is a little fogged with sleep, so maybe his confidence high from the other night is still floating around like a stubborn dream he doesn’t want to wake from yet. But Mingyu _is _awake and Wonwoo is _here_ and _real_ and the reality of the situation is enough to convince Mingyu to open up his arms and pull a squawking Wonwoo into a long-awaited, well-deserved embrace.

Icy condensation taps his lower back. Mingyu squawks and detaches immediately.

“What’s the study session for?” Wonwoo asks as he makes Mingyu hold onto both coffees. Afterwards, an exchange: one coffee for Wonwoo’s worn-in sweatshirt, which Mingyu throws on with clumsy, single-handed grace.

“Behavioral econ,” Mingyu says, grimacing, but at least he can revel in the fact that Wonwoo’s “oversize” fits him normally. “My professor lives in the dark ages and doesn’t let us use laptops. My handwriting is already illegible twenty minutes after I write things down _and_ I have the attention span of a half-baked scone, so I basically miss out on lecture material eighty percent of the time—sixty on a good day. The idea of an ‘optional’ study session is a myth.”

“Will Eunwoo be there? At the study session?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Mingyu fidgets a little. “It’s ‘cause he has past problem sets and stuff. But I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”

Wonwoo waves a dismissive hand. “You have my blessing. Mwah, au revoir, adieu, whatever other fancy-sounding iterations for good-bye there are.”

“I—what?”

Wonwoo pokes him squarely in the forehead. Mingyu flinches. He should remind Wonwoo to cut his nails soon.

“You’re an adult with your own life,” Wonwoo translates. “Your decisions don’t have to depend on my feelings.”

“But your feelings matter to me. We need to actually communicate. And stuff.”

“And stuff?”

Mingyu wiggles his eyebrows. _“And stuff.”_

“You’re insatiable,” Wonwoo scolds. His attempt at tartness is ruined by the sweet sigh wrenched out of him when Mingyu reels him in again. “As am I, I guess.”

Wonwoo slowly yields his weight to gravity, as if worried that the supporting infrastructure of Mingyu’s body couldn’t possibly take both of them (spoiler alert: they’re fine). The metallic coldness of Wonwoo’s glasses frames scratches at Mingyu’s collarbones. Mingyu shivers. Wonwoo sighs again.

The dead-end of the hallway is entirely glass and dusty from age, so the white of the oncoming sunlight is more grayish than it usually is, gently stinging the right side of Mingyu’s vision. He turns away, stares at the yawning stretch of the opposite side of the hall before resting his cheek on the floof of Wonwoo’s morning mane. Smells like generic convenience store stuff. It’s nice.

Someone takes a noisy sip of coffee. Mingyu is too drowsy to figure out who.

“Wanna grab lunch later?” Wonwoo says to Mingyu’s chest.

“Only if you pay,” Mingyu tells Wonwoo’s hair, “Especially since exploitation of the club budget is, sadly, off the table.”

Wonwoo’s hair sticks up in places Mingyu fails to pat down because hand oils aren’t actual hair product. But that doesn’t stop him from trying again and again and again because petting down hair eventually turns into just petting, which is far more fun. Wonwoo probably notices because he shakes his head in weak retaliation.

“How about that neoliberal modernistic eatery for the casual nouveau bourgeoisie?” Wonwoo suggests. “I’ve been craving Korean-Mexican. And free market capitalism.”

“Okay, but how the hell did you remember that stupid slogan, word for word?”

Mingyu can feel Wonwoo squirm and curl into himself—into _Mingyu_ and Mingyu almost loses control of his limbs.

“It was our first fake-date,” Wonwoo says like that’s his entire explanation. Which it is.

Mingyu turns an interesting shade of pink that Wonwoo hopefully can’t see through the sweatshirt—Wonwoo’s—covering him up. “Is that what you called them?” Mingyu asks, trying for cursory but ending up curious instead. “’Fake-dates’?”

“Shut up, we’re not talking about this now.” A pause. Then, “Wait, what did _you_ call them?”

“‘Not-dates.’ It’s dumb, I know. Yours is, like, a half-rhyme so at least there’s some literary value to it.”

Before Mingyu can crack an eye open, Wonwoo has already separated himself just enough to reach up and kiss the curve of Mingyu’s morning-lax jaw. Yesterday evening, kisses felt like fire and brimstone and the world being upended on itself. This morning, kisses feel like cashmere and softened butter and multicolored tube socks to keep feet warm during restless, post-winter nights.

“Go brush your teeth,” Wonwoo murmurs against the now-damp patch of skin. “And floss. Please. For the love of god and baseline oral hygiene.”

Mingyu registers himself press something sloppy to Wonwoo’s forehead. Mingyu registers the musical sound of whining whenever he blows out breaths of caffeine and good morning nastiness into Wonwoo’s face because Mingyu’s coffee-free hand is strong and holding in place exactly one squished expression of utter, loving disgust.

All of a sudden, there’s a battering ram of door knocks that shock Mingyu into Wonwoo’s arms.

“Can you guys pause the hallway sex for sec? Some of us’ve got places to be,” Seokmin yells more than asks from behind the once-obstructed door. “Also, couch is off-limits. So is the kitchenette. And any other space I can access on a daily basis because I don’t want to acknowledge any degree of whamming, bamming, thank-you ma’am-ing while washing my hands. I have rights. Our roommate manifesto is still on the fridge.”

Mingyu makes a choking nose into Wonwoo’s shoulder. Wonwoo huffs a sound of amusement.

“Text me when you’re done,” Wonwoo murmurs, patting Mingyu’s cheek. “And don’t dress too handsome. Someone might want to steal you away from me.”

Mingyu knows Wonwoo intends that jokingly, especially now that there’s a new dimension of confidence in each other’s not-so-secret fidelity. So long of painstakingly narrow-mindedness has this one benefit to lean on, even if it took them this damn long to get here.

“That’s impossible,” Mingyu says, bringing his nose to Wonwoo’s. “You’ve had that—had me—under lock and key for years.”

“That is actually the most revolting thing you’ve ever said.”

“Did it work?”

“Not even a little,” Wonwoo says despite the piss-poor effort to bite back a smile.

“God, it’s too early and I’m too sober for this shit,” Seokmin deadpans from the now-open doorway. “Don’t desecrate anything while I’m gone. The manifesto watches.”

“Aye, sir.” Mingyu salutes Seokmin’s disappearing backside. He turns to Wonwoo, says, “I’m not lying, you know.”

“I do know,” Wonwoo confirms. “I’m glad I do now.”

Mingyu finally gives in to his urges and pulls out those coffee (and morning breath) smooches, swallowing up Wonwoo’s whining sequels like an iced Americano with too little sugar and just enough boyfriend material.

Later, Mingyu almost forgets to floss after breakfast. Almost.

“How we feelin’ today, champ?” Eunwoo greets with a yawn. “Something good happen?”

“Has happened, has been happening, will hopefully continue to happen,” Mingyu says, dreamy goop probably dripping out of his eyeballs now that his brain is awake and turned liquid after recounting the last twelve hours. “Am I still alive? Is time still moving? I might be hearing voices. Like, for real.”

Eunwoo rolls his eyes. “I hope they’re telling you to focus on those past exam questions,” he says. “Your midterm’s in four days.”

“I think I’m in love. Oh my god. Isn’t that crazy? That’s so _crazy.”_

“As crazy as the fact that your timer started five minutes ago.”

“Damn it, sunbae—”

_“Stop calling me that—”_

Spring waltzes in slowly, lazily, like the last drops of dew the morning after the first seasonal rainfall. Buds of gladioli and hibiscuses start to bloom, which reminds Mingyu of the first time he (properly) talked to Wonwoo last semester—parked on a bench in one of the prettier smoking areas on campus, just a few blocks away from the communications building Mingyu couldn’t get into for five minutes straight because keycard-automated locks are apparently a thing. It was fall then, but the air is just as cool and trench coats are still appropriate to use. Hopefully.

“Not when oversized cardigans are the seasonal trend now, but okay, you do you, buddy,” Wonwoo scoffs from the opening of the makeshift kitchen. Tent. Thing. “Also, really? Those loafers again?”

Mingyu huffs from the portable burners he’s manning by himself. It’s way past lunch now but not yet dinner, so the student butler café—The Teaspoon, as it’s cleverly named—has slowed in customer attendance enough for Mingyu to not cry at how much sugar he’s inadvertently consumed just from breathing in the dessert fumes.

“Shut it, they look great with my skin tone, _thank you,” _Mingyu contends rather testily. “Now hurry up and grab these crepes before the whipped cream deflates.”

Turns out that the entrance of spring also meant the entrance of the annual University Spring Festival. Mingyu always thought that, by the age of high school, education outgrew student-organized festivities—and, by that logic, shameless club money grabs and general chaos because young adults radiate that shit. Seems like he was mistaken.

Too many girls in the club had taken a liking to the butler café idea considering the uncanny number of handsome male specimen available for exploitation. That, and too many over-confident (and, honestly, kind of mediocre-looking) guys jumped at the opportunity to get tipped to flirt and potentially score a date in the context of highly diluted, normalized, and frankly uninspired BDSM subculture.

That was Jihoon’s complaint, word for word. Really, though, he couldn’t have expected “classy” out of wilding college students.

Much to his inflated ego, Mingyu had been one of the first guys elected for the butler role. _But_ he was half-asleep at the time after another surprise all-nighter and was so startled at his own name that he fell off his chair and broke one of its legs. So, yeah, Mingyu was bumped down to the manual labor division.

“He knows his way around the kitchen,” Wonwoo had argued valiantly, which is to say with no conviction, just pure amusement. “Maybe he can help with preparing the food.”

And so here Mingyu is, upgraded from local box boy to amateur chef-slash-patissier sans the pretentious paper hat. He kind of wanted one though.

“‘Not part of the budget,’ my ass,” Mingyu grumbles.

Wonwoo walks over with his serving tray under his arm, pinches Mingyu’s frown-bulged cheek with a little chuckle. “Are you still mad about the shift reassignment?”

“We were supposed be done an hour and a half ago,” Mingyu says, probably pouting—_definitely _pouting. “We’ve missed our slot for the Haunted Hallway, and the glee club’s musical for Romeo, Juliet, and the Goblet of Fire is almost over. _And _I don’t even get to see your fan-service because I’m stuck back here making paper pancakes and hot leaf water for thirsty patrons who aren’t even remotely interested in the menu.”

“Trust me, my aegyo is a nightmare with this face. At least you get to see me in a butler uniform. Want me to call you master?”

“I might set this place on fire if you do, so no thanks.”

Wonwoo hums, says suddenly right next to Mingyu’s ear, “Alright, _sir,”_ with that unnecessary add-on being way too low and way too private that it makes Mingyu nearly drop the batter ladle into the burner fire like a frustrated, now-libido-perked idiot. Who let him near a fire in the first place? Christ, what a disaster.

“Jihoon and his band have one more song before he’s back on floor duty,” Wonwoo says as he settles onto a nearby stool. “After that, we can bounce and Jun can take over the kitchen.”

“Jun can be trusted with the kitchen?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You did not.”

Mingyu watches on with unsolicited attention as Wonwoo plucks his gloves off with his teeth, strips himself of his blazer, loosens his tie with one hand and runs the other through the disheveled non-patterns of his hair. He styled it today, Mingyu notes, not by any significant means, but enough to see more of the face Mingyu is starting to have sudden, intermittent urges to make out with now that it’s perfectly kosher to do so.

Wonwoo yawns a little. “Mm? What was that?”

“You should bring that order out soon,” Mingyu says over his shoulder. “A soccer mom might sic the manager on you for not being a flawless service robot.”

Wonwoo responds with a few laughs, sapped of substance and leaving behind just the sound. His energy for conversation is usually above average when he needs it to be, especially around the right people. But dedicating a kinder remodel of his Resting Bitch Face—

(“People are into that, though. Y’know, _bad boy vibes_ but, like, with a soft side.”

“I’m not soft, I’m tired.”

“Senioritis?”

“Life.”

“I feel that.”)

—to hours’ worth of fan-service for strangers must be exhausting.

“Here,” Mingyu says, walking over with a cup with rising steam. “It’s ginger tea. I think lavender or chamomile’d be better for you right now, but we just ran out.”

“Tired college students know what’s up,” Wonwoo says, dipping his head at the offer. His jacket slips to the ground. Mingyu picks it up and wraps it around his own waist.

The dry, bagged up stuff with kettle-boiled lava water isn’t as impressive as the loose leaf-and-strain method Jihoon had tried and failed to advocate (“We’re _uni _students, mate, not European colonizers commiserating about stolen lands over afternoon tea.”) But just a whiff of the scented steam seems to perk Wonwoo’s sunken expression.

“Want to eat something?” Mingyu asks, squatting in front of Wonwoo and resting a chin on his knee. “Mise en place team went a little overboard with the crepe batter and pastry cream. Lots of tiramisu, too.”

“I’m good, thank you. Not really a sweets guy.”

Mingyu wiggles his eyebrows. “You like _me_, though.”

Wonwoo acknowledges nothing.

“And I don’t mean that in, uh, an ‘eat me’ kind of way. Unless you want it to be.”

Then Wonwoo splutters on his tea.

“Like, I mean, cuddles,” is Mingyu’s hopeless follow-up. “Or not. Um.”

Mingyu bumps his forehead a few times against Wonwoo’s thigh in verbal forfeit, squeezes his eyes shut because _wow_ did Mingyu just hit peak awkward seduction? And he’s already way past puberty, supposedly? Mingyu would drop himself like a brick if he could.

When Wonwoo finishes the rest of his tea, he says, “Can you help me up? My legs are kind of stiff from all the walking.”

Mingyu is glad to oblige, springing up from the ground to offer a hand he then realizes is probably grossly clammy since saying dumb things makes him sweat with doubled efficiency, so he curses, wipes his palms on trousers, and _then_ holds them out again.

Mingyu’s pulse jumps in a familiar way when Wonwoo chuckles and takes the offer.

“You are pretty sweet,” Wonwoo says, standing and setting the teacup aside, in his own brand of sugar schmuck.

Mingyu sometimes forgets that Wonwoo is capable of that, too. Being unapologetically sweet. Putting his feelings into words that don’t make him physically recoil in embarrassment like regular people would. There’s a frightening simplicity to the way Wonwoo speaks, to the way his affection tumbles out with a certainty that hits different notes now that Mingyu knows a certainty exists in the first place.

Wonwoo cups his hands to Mingyu’s cheeks. He smiles. There’s a comforting warmth not unlike that of burying your toes in beach sand, when the sea water is too cold to touch but the earth has been keeping itself warm for ages and is always happy to share.

At some point between the staring and grinning and breathing each other’s air—lips touch.

The winds from this morning have made Wonwoo chapped, but Mingyu doesn’t mind. It’s a reminder that Wonwoo is still human, can still have some roughed-up edges accessorizing the clean lines and quiet diligence he practices. Mingyu tucks his palms into the back pockets of Wonwoo’s cheaply-made costume pants. Wonwoo hums at the touch.

Soon enough, Mingyu learns that Wonwoo’s “quiet” is a limited resource; hasty, singular exchanges understandably warrant nothing but that.

Then the murmuring sounds arise. Little “mm”s and “ng”s are drawn out of Wonwoo the more he seems to lose himself in each kiss. It’s a lazy thing, a late-afternoon thing, a wrap-his-arms-around-Mingyu’s-neck-and-relax-for-once thing. It’s almost like Wonwoo gets drowsier as time passes, like kissing Mingyu is the last thing he imagines he’d do before falling asleep and it’s the cutest god damn thing in the world_._

And as much as Mingyu would love to fall asleep with Wonwoo in the middle of a dirt floor surrounded by a tent set up by people who have never set up tents before, Mingyu knows that the two of them need to get back to work.

Who knew Mingyu would be the clear-headed one today? The world works in mysterious ways.

“Hey, hyung, hyung,” Mingyu murmurs. His bones almost disintegrate at the quiet whine Wonwoo makes. “Our shift’s done in fifteen minutes, then we can change and explore the rest of the festival. Sound good?”

Wonwoo sighs into Mingyu’s shoulder. “I don’t like it when you make sense.”

“Um, thank you?”

Wonwoo blindly pats at Mingyu’s face, which ends up nearly sticking a finger into Mingyu’s nose.

After a few more hugging squeezes for good measure, Wonwoo straightens himself out, presses down the newborn wrinkles in his pseudo-suit as best as he can. With the way he looks, there’s a thin line he treads between accidental versus intentional dishevelment. Mingyu’s blood momentum picks up at the sight.

“Hey, you guys—”

Soonyoung’s head pops in through the flappy doorway. His eyes are shut.

“We’re not doing anything weird,” Wonwoo says half-dry, half-satisfied.

Soonyoung’s eyes open in relief. “Thank goodness. Wasn’t sure if you guys were into public exhibitionism or not. What was I gonna say? Oh yeah! There’s some dude out there looking for you two.”

“…Am I just supposed to know exactly who you’re talking about?”

“Don’t be an asshole, asshole,” Soonyoung says. “Since I’m nice—you’re _welcome—_I wanted to check with you just in case the guy was a psychopath or something. His name is Hansol, says he knows you guys. He’s at table eight with a girl and some other guy who won’t shut up about his mom, which I can respect because _hell yeah _moms are the best. But when you start _singing_ about it _in the middle of a student BDSM subculture café—”_

Wonwoo looks ten times more awake now. So does Mingyu.

“Oh my god. Bro.”

_“Bro.”_

_“Brooo!”_

“Is this some kind of mating ritual?” Jun asks, hushed.

“It’s all a front,” Wonwoo responds at normal volume. “Probably to assert male dominance or whatever.”

If the years have turned Wonwoo into an older version of himself, then it’s turned Hansol into a nearly unrecognizable person. The years have done him equal justice—just differently.

Hansol isn’t much taller, considering the magical genetic combination of Caucasian Height and Asian Don’t Raisin. But there’s this…_chill _that just radiates around Hansol. He looks like the kind of relaxed hipster extrovert who’d take one look at you and decide that you’re his newest best friend to discuss geopolitics and Cardi B’s discography in extensive, probably unnecessary detail.

Also, hello cheekbones. And an A+ smile. Truly, kudos to Hansol’s parents.

“Dude, it’s been a real hot minute,” Hansol exhales as he throws his arms around Mingyu. “Speaking of hot, what the hell happened to you? When’d you get so buff and tall?”

Mingyu chuckles, hand to his neck. “Mandatory military training. The training part kind of stuck, I guess.”

“Thank god for American citizenship.”

“I swear, you and Josh are conspiring against the rest of us.” Mingyu looks over his shoulder at Wonwoo. “C’mon, hyung, back me up here.”

“It still boggles my mind that you two ended up in the same university,” Hansol says as Wonwoo strolls over for his own helping of Hipster Hansol Hugs. “Did you guys plan that and conveniently forget to tell me?”

“It was just coincidence,” Mingyu says, grinning a little, “Or something like that.”

“Speaking of which,” Wonwoo cuts in, “How’d _you_ know we were here?”

“Josh told me.” Hansol wiggles a pointer finger between them. “I’m guessing things finally worked out?”

Mingyu’s eyebrows shoot up. “You knew?”

“Was it...not meant to be known?”

Mingyu and Wonwoo look at anywhere but each other.

“That tells me absolutely nothing,” Hansol says with a jolly thumbs-up. “But good on you both for being civil about it.”

“They were making out in the back,” Soonyoung whispers in a brief fly-by to table twelve.

Hansol adds a second thumbs-up. It’s reassuring to know that he’s still as easygoing as ever.

“We’re...figuring things out,” Wonwoo says slowly, his expression like an advertisement for Soonyoung’s upcoming murder, but cordiality and not-murder are part of the dedicated butler aesthetic so he lets it go. For now. “How about you? How’s life on the same end of the pond but slightly more north?”

“Pretty spiffy actually. The ‘rents finally let up on letting me do music, so I’ve been writing and producing stuff here and there.”

“That’s great to hear!” Mingyu says. “I know you’ve been battling with them about that for ages.”

“Yeah yeah yeah! And I just started interning at a radio station a few weeks ago and it’s been such a fucking _dream_, my dude—”

_”Bro—“_

And it continues like this. Mingyu recounts his rollercoaster high school swimming career and the time he actually cried when Minseo asked him to teach her how to swim after so long of finding loopholes to PE classes. Hansol raves about the time his own sister had a chance meeting with Yubin from the _fuckin’ Wonder Girls, man, that’s so sick and I was so jelly_ at the airport while she was on her way back to boarding school from vacation. Wonwoo doesn’t say anything about the low-key sister complexes they both probably have, but he definitely thinks it.

“God, your face is so…chiseled now,” Wonwoo comments instead, poking a finger into the very chisel of Hansol’s cheek. “Sorry, it’s just—your face was so squishy back then. And you didn’t have eyebrows. Or a hairstyle that wasn’t a bowl cut. You looked like a dumpling. I kind of miss that, actually.”

Hansol’s expression pinches. “I don’t know whether to be insulted or grateful.”

“You can be both.”

“Ah, actually, speaking of dumpling faces—”

Hansol swivels around on his mismatched Vans, only to notice that his three-person table is occupied by himself. And only himself.

“Huh, weird,” Hansol says, scratching his head. “Seungkwan should’ve been back with Sofia by now.”

“Your friend?” Wonwoo asks.

“Yeah, Seungkwan and I went to the same uni until he applied for a transfer. Said it’d be closer to his mom so I can’t really blame him. That’s why we’re here, actually! Since newly-admitted students often visit during festival period and—”

Suddenly, a high pitched scream rings in the air.

Reflexes and self-discipline force Mingyu into a sprint before his brain can catch up. There’s a “Mingyu!” called somewhere behind him, but he’s too far into his running to stop now. Someone needs help, and if military training and his dozing off during intro psychology have taught him anything, it’s that bystanders don’t do shit and he’s trying his best to not do that as much.

It isn’t long before Mingyu arrives at the scene. His jaw sets stiff. His eyes are dead-serious with practice as he maneuvers his way through the growing bustle of attendees hungry for their dose of drama for the day.

At the eye of the storm, Mingyu finds a trio of upperclassmen-looking guys, maybe even graduates, the center man of whom looks hysterically livid towards a younger guy at least a head shorter.

Looks like Short Fella is drenched in ice water, shivering in a pool of melting cubes that are definitely going to ruin his Oxfords if that’s real leather. There’s also a girl behind him, curled up on the ground in shock—_oh, shit_, Mingyu realizes, _that’s Sofia._

“Who do you think you are?” growls the very feral upperclassman, too red-faced with something else than just rage. “How dare you talk to a sunbae with that fucking disrespectful attitude?”

“And how dare you touch someone, and a young woman, no less, without their permission?” retaliates Short Fella—Seungkwan, Mingyu figures. “Besides, I’m not a student here. You’re not my sunbae. I don’t answer to you.”

_“You f—”_

“Careful,” Seungkwan warns, smirking. “There are children here.”

Mingyu can respect that kind of ballsy audacity, even if it makes his fears spike at how infuriating the provocation must sound. The signs of the upperclassman’s next move are obvious—clenching fists, heels digging into the dirt, mouth curled in an ugly bark of potentially drunken rage—which is more than enough for Mingyu to step a gangly leg into the fray.

“Okay, okay, I think that’s enough,” Mingyu interjects, arm extended out in front of Seungkwan. “Let’s all just return to what we were doing before—”

“And just who the fuck are you?” sneers the sunbae, wrenching himself out of his worried peers’ holds. “This asshole’s fuckin’ _boyfriend? _You here to save his gay ass? Huh?_”_

Mingyu undoes the jacket at his waist and tosses it aside. He can feel Seungkwan bristle behind him.

“Fucking hell, I leave this trash heap for a year and and suddenly everyone’s infected with that gay shit. Disgusting.”

There’s an intense acidity pooling in Mingyu’s mouth. Jesus, this sunbae is the type to power-trip on outdated hierarchies and social structures the moment he gets a taste of the privileges he never actually earned. Mingyu thought he’d left that behind in the military. It was a mistake to think something so deep-rooted could stop there.

“I’m just trying to prevent anything unnecessary from happening,” Mingyu says evenly but strained. “This is a festival, sunbae, not a boxing ring.”

“Ah, so _you’re_ a student here,” the upperclassman says, grinning maliciously. “Are you a first year?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then don’t fucking talk down to me!”

There’s another scream as the upperclassman lunges for Mingyu’s throat, which Mingyu intercepts with a sidestep and firm elbow jab to the man’s shoulder blades. Based on his clumsy recovery and crude aggression, it doesn’t seem like the guy has gone to the military yet or done much physical training if he has, so Mingyu does his best to just predict and avoid until the alcohol exhaustion sets in.

“Christ, this is a mess,” someone—Jihoon?—hisses through their teeth as they run in. “Wonwoo, help Hansol get his sister and friend out of there. Soonyoung and Jun, find some professors, preferably older and looks like they have some authority. I’ll call the police.”

“Don’t—don’t you move a fucking finger,” the underclassman slurs, doubled over and breathing heavy. He’s running on pure adrenaline and fury at this point. “I gotta break this fucker’s nose first, make his boyfriend shit himself before breaking his nose, too.”

“I’m sure he’d be very sad, though I suppose nose jobs are pretty easy to get around here,” Wonwoo comments, stony, as he pulls the fallen blazer over Seungkwan’s quivering shoulders. “I’m sure your parents would be more disappointed to see just how much of a disappointment their son has become. I wonder what they’d prefer more: a son who doesn’t harass innocent people, or a son who’s just a plain dickhead? I guess common sense isn’t a hereditary thing.”

“Why _you—”_

Yeah, Mingyu’s just about had it. No one gets to look at Wonwoo like that and stay standing.

His joints pop a little from lack of practice, but Mingyu remembers something his division captain taught them during their first physical training exercise: how to incapacitate someone without hitting their vitals because _Hey,_ shrug, _you never know_. A twist of limbs here, an itty bitty punch to the temple there, and—_boom_—down for the count. Effects apparently vary, depending on the jackass being pinned to the ground. With alcohol in the mix, the guy might be asleep for a little while.

“Huh,” Wonwoo says. “Maybe I should do my military training soon.”

“…said no one ever,” Soonyoung adds quietly.

The short exchange seems to be lighthearted enough to break up the tense atmosphere, finally making people disperse and melt into the festivities. The knocked-out underclassman’s friends apologize profusely before hauling their companion away to somewhere hopefully out of school grounds.

“Thank you, dude,” Hansol says sincerely, Sofia quietly but tightly attached to his side. He glances around at everyone. “Thanks to all of you. That was a shit show and my sis is definitely never applying to this university _ever_, but I’m still super duper grateful to y’all for protecting her. And Seungkwan!”

“Hey, I helped!” Seungkwan protests, clean towel from a nearby food stand now draped on his head. “I’m small, but I can fight.”

“I can see that,” Mingyu chuckles, patting Seungkwan’s shoulder. “You were really brave, protecting Hansol’s sister. Oh! I’m Mingyu, by the way. A friend of Hansol’s, but I guess he already told you if you were at the butler café.”

“O-Oh, yeah, he did,” Seungkwan says. He looks a little faint, but that’s not unexpected, given the circumstances. “Thank you—I mean, thank you all for the, uh, saving.”

Wonwoo shakes his head as he head-pats Sofia, who manages a smile. “Nah, we didn’t do what was most important. That was all you.”

Seungkwan looks like he wants to say something, that is until Soonyoung jumps in. “But Mingyu, _dude_, you were like, ‘Yo yo yo let’s cut the crap and get back to our own businesses’ and then the guy was like ‘Da fuck are you?’ and then you went all muscle flexy and Jackie Chan on him although I think he was kinda smashed so I guess _he_ was Jackie Chan, but, like, low budget and also really mean—”

Wonwoo sticks his balled-up tie into Soonyoung’s mouth. Soonyoung glares at him like Wonwoo’s done this before. Mingyu wouldn’t be surprised if he has in different variations.

“I’m pretty sure our shifts were over right about yesterday,” Wonwoo says, definitely exhausted at this point. “So if you need me and Mingyu—actually, please don’t. At least until Monday.”

Hansol waves at them with an invisible tear to his eye. “Thank you for your service today, Mr. Kim, Mr. Jeon. You’ve done your country proud. It was really great seeing you two again.”

“Ditto,” Mingyu quips.

Just as Wonwoo is about to steer Mingyu away to the student lockers—

“I, uh.”

Everyone turns to Seungkwan, who, admirably, does a great job of keeping up his brave expression despite the shivering. Chivalry might not be dead, Mingyu is happy to tell himself.

“Can I keep the jacket?” Seungkwan asks, hugging it a little closer. “It’s…nice.”

“Vintage,” Hansol adds approvingly.

Wonwoo shrugs. “It’s terrible quality, honestly, but you’re more than welcome to keep it.”

“Oh,” Seungkwan with surprise, maybe even inexplicable disappointment. “Uh, thank you. Sunbae.”

After a few more extended exchanges and hugs because Mingyu misses Hansol too much, Mingyu finally waves them all farewell as Wonwoo forcibly drags him away. “Text us the next time that you’re here!” Mingyu yells. “So we can grab dinner or something!”

Hansol yells back a vague confirmation that kind of just sounds like nondescript vowel sounds. Seungkwan is grinning a little, even if he looks like he might pass out at any moment.

“I think I might, too,” Mingyu sighs as he wraps an arm around Wonwoo’s waist. “Promise you won’t turn into an asshat after you graduate?”

“Guys like that are angry because they’re lonely,” Wonwoo says, happy to snuggle in for more body heat in this weather. “I think I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says, pulling Wonwoo closer. “We’ll be fine.”

(When Mingyu and Wonwoo are finally out of earshot, Seungkwan turns to Jihoon and asks:

“What was your club called again? The Spoon, right? I’m not a roleplay kind of guy, but I like food, so—”)

By the time Mingyu and Wonwoo are changed into more comfortable, non-suggestive attire, the sun has already started to set and both of them are absolutely starving.

Mingyu is a bottomless pit with legs and has the parental bank account to (dubiously) pay for that, so it doesn’t take much convincing for him to jump between food stalls and vacuum up everything his eyes make contact with. With Wonwoo more drained than usual, he seems content enough to eat through what Mingyu shares with him or, rarely, doesn’t finish.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get you a new order?” Mingyu asks on more than one occasion. “You should get your own share.”

“It’s alright,” Wonwoo says, not-so-subtly leaning in to bite the fried squid in Mingyu’s hand. “Sharing is caring.”

Mingyu can’t argue with that, especially not when Wonwoo’s fingers curl around Mingyu’s wrist whenever that happens.

They both manage to sit on the last performance at the auditorium, featuring the b-boy-slash-taekwondo team Minghao started a while back with some other Chinese students who enjoyed the same oddly specific intersection of performance art. It’s nothing short of incredible, really, especially with Minghao as this year’s creative director. Seeing Wonwoo grip tighter onto Mingyu with every triple backflip and aerobatic stunt was a pretty fun bonus, too.

“My body feels like a stack of crackers now,” Wonwoo mumbles after the show. “Maybe I shouldn’t have quit football in the second grade.”

Mingyu laughs, throws an arm across Wonwoo’s shoulders and jostles him a bit. “My offer to hit gym with me still stands.”

“If you seeing me in a butler costume would set a kitchen on fire, me seeing you at the gym would burn the building down.”

“You’ll probably see more of me than that in the future.”

Wonwoo gags a little. “Someone’s feeling bold today.”

“Nah,” Mingyu says as a cooling, energizing breeze flits past them. “Just happy.”

When he spots something in the corner of his eye, he holds Wonwoo more tightly before guiding (read: dragging) them both in a direction that’s definitely not to the busstop.

“I know you don’t like sweets much,” Mingyu says in an admittedly poor disclaimer, “But I still want to make you something that’s not hot leaf water before the festival ends. Remember when we tried to make dalgona for your mom for mother’s day?”

“Yeah, and I burned myself because I didn’t know that fires are hot,” Wonwoo says, but he isn’t protesting as Mingyu pulls him towards a make-your-own sponge candy stand. “I tell you I don’t like sweets, and you decide to make me something that’s basically just sugar.”

“Maybe you don’t like it because you’re so full of it,” Mingyu says.

Based on the radio silence, perhaps Mingyu has finally achieved his life’s goal of shutting Wonwoo up with clever banter—even if “clever” just means tacky schmoop in the end.

By every miracle, Mingyu doesn’t burn the sugar or himself, adds just enough baking soda to keep the mixture caramel-colored and soft but not _too_ soft. After flattening the sugar mound with the metal press, one of the leading students presents Mingyu with cookie cutter options.

“Which one do you want?” Mingyu asks. “The heart and star are being used, so you get the car, sword, or Christmas tree.”

“How romantic,” Wonwoo sighs, cheeks painted pink by the weather and blush-colored sky. His normally dark hair is a softer purple color in this light. “I would’ve picked the sword anyway. Need something to stab my enemies with.”

“Guess I know what to get you when we hit a hundred days,” Mingyu snorts, even if his heart flips at the notion of ever hitting that milestone. Time is such a strange concept to him now that things have changed. “_Aaaand_…it’s done! Here, don’t eat it too fast.”

Wonwoo basically bites the thing in half. Chic, cocky jerk.

“Jun was right,” Mingyu says. “You really aren’t a lawful neutral.”

When Wonwoo just blinks at him, Mingyu realizes the gravity of what he’d just said.

“You were there?” Wonwoo asks. “During the student activities fair?”

“Y-Yeah,” Mingyu falters. “I mean, where else could I have signed up for the club?”

“And you didn’t talk to me?”

“I mean, I _thought_ I heard your voice, but,” Mingyu scratches his head, eyes now fully set on that busstop, “But I didn’t want to think I was just imagining things again.”

“Again,” Wonwoo echoes.

Mingyu is already a few strides ahead, but he can practically still feel Wonwoo smiling behind him. It’s easy for Wonwoo to break into a jog and catch up. It’s easy for Wonwoo to slip his hand into Mingyu’s coat pocket because it’s still damn cold for an outdoor school festival and neither of them brought gloves today.

“Have I told you that I love you?” Wonwoo asks, lips shimmering just a tad from the sugar crystals stuck there. Probably on purpose.

“You may have mentioned it once,” Mingyu says, inclining his head to do something about it.

“Do you mind locking the door behind you?”

“Yeah, sure.” Mingyu does just that as he starts toeing off his shoes, “What do you want for din—”

Something thumps softly against the back of Mingyu’s neck, cutting him short. By the breaths on his skin, Mingyu guesses that that “something” is Wonwoo’s forehead.

“How did you get so brave?” Wonwoo murmurs. A rope-like tightness fastens around Mingyu’s waist—it’s made of Wonwoo’s arms, _is_ his arms. “Back in the day, you screamed at butterflies during break period.”

“I still do,” Mingyu chuckles, “Now that it’s almost spring and the flowers are out.”

“It’s cuter now since you’re twice the size you were back then.”

“Ooh, size kink.”

“Shut up, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Wonwoo sounds so hushed despite the privacy, like he doesn’t even want the ghosts of bygone starving college students to hear what he’s saying. Not that Wonwoo has ever been superstitious, but he’d mentioned once that phantom limbs are something he’s open to being convinced about. Oh.

The tenseness building in Mingyu’s throat could rival the tenacious grip at his waist.

Mingyu rests a palm against Wonwoo’s mountain-rigid knuckles, a request for Wonwoo to loosen—he does—so Mingyu can turn around and let them hold each other face-to-face. Wonwoo gives something of a smile, something of a simple greeting or gesture of acknowledgment of the person in his arms. It looks as every day as he has been for the past several months.

And then the seam of Wonwoo’s lips curls into the smallest, most deceiving simper. It effortlessly overturns what was once a cool temperature to a suspense already a few degrees warmer.

“Then again,” the grip on Mingyu’s waist turns vice, “I can appreciate some…favorable proportions.”


	7. dalgona & ginger tea (pt. 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And they do” is the last line of The Mature Scene, so CTRL+F for any skipping—or paying respects.

In this moment, Mingyu’s entire body feels like a strained, desperate high note.

He rubs his thumbs at Wonwoo’s hips, pulls the tucked shirt untucked so he can press into the skin of Wonwoo’s hipbones. Unsatisfied with Wonwoo’s mocking composure, Mingyu does it harder, pressure yielding enough to not bruise yet still strong enough to force a staccato exhale through Wonwoo’s nose.

Eyelashes flutter. Wonwoo bites the inside of his mouth—_stay closed, _the gesture screams.

Something warm and syrupy rises like a flooding house in Mingyu’s stomach, percolates across every inch of skin on his body until he's feverish with vivid memories: every almost-kiss that’s ever transpired; bodies huddled for heat in between winter and spring; the way Wonwoo’s honed tolerance for his own desires shattered like overblown glass the night they laid it all out.

“Can I,” Mingyu murmurs, licks his lips, doesn't realize he's tugging on Wonwoo’s belt loops until, _until_, “Can I kiss you?”

“I’d tell you that asking isn't necessary,” Wonwoo tilts his chin up, eyes gleaming, “But I think I like it when you do.”

“Discovering things about yourself?”

“I’d call it a confirmation.”

Mingyu should learn when verbal battles are not to be won. No matter the smart quip, Wonwoo is always five steps ahead with something smarter, wittier, heavier with intent. Nothing Mingyu can say will fluster his partner for tonight—and hopefully tomorrow night, and the night after that, and—

“So are you gonna do it or what?”

It’s exactly the smooth taunt that drives Mingyu’s mind to places he’d avoided lest he lose himself in them. Wonwoo’s words, Wonwoo’s mouth, Wonwoo’s god damn _voice_—Jesus, what a voice it is. If Mingyu could distill the sound into something like wine, he would. If he could drink it each day, he would; he would be drunk every hour on the dot just on the way Wonwoo’s voice makes him feel like Bacchus himself.

So what if Mingyu is obsessed? Anyone would be after hearing it used the way Wonwoo does: like a mercenary’s favorite weapon. Trained. Precise. With an end goal in mind and _fuck_ if that’s not the hottest thing ever, then nothing is.

“The feeling is mutual,” Wonwoo says, “But, you know, with the muscles.”

“I said stuff?”

“You said a lot of stuff.”

“Oh. Well. Shit.”

Wonwoo moves in so close that only a hair’s width separates their lips. “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I like that, too.”

Mingyu yanks on those very convenient belt loops, making Wonwoo yelp and stumble on half a step with only Mingyu as a crutch for balance. Wonwoo’s hands urgently grip at the cloth on Mingyu’s shoulders, feet dragged to his toes, eyes blown in surprise—and then Mingyu does just as he said he wanted to.

Wonwoo’s response is delightfully quick.

The escalation of forcefulness parallels the fumble of Mingyu’s hands for Wonwoo’s hair, threads of uncured silk that smell redolent of burnt sugar and perspiration from this afternoon’s labor. When he tugs again, Wonwoo makes a sound that hits Mingyu like a jolt of static. Low, rich, but just higher-pitched and fractured enough to sound like an accident.

Wonwoo hardly deals in accidents, but surely that wasn't purposeful. It couldn’t have been.

The devil himself rakes his teeth across Mingyu’s bottom lip with far too much self-satisfaction. It makes Mingyu alert the whole damn apartment building that evil incarnate has been doing this—playing with him, that cheeky bastard—from the start.

It’s a childish form of revenge that riles Mingyu up exactly as Wonwoo probably plans. Mad respect. Also, damn, that’s also really hot.

“Too fast?” Wonwoo breathes when he pulls back.

“Too good,” Mingyu whispers when he pushes them both forward.

He curves the trajectory of their stumbling movements to the adjacent wall, trapping a new bird inside the cage of his arms. But height and size mean nothing when the person who submitted to the prison could so easily pick it apart. And Mingyu would let him.

Fingers curl and pull at Mingyu's clothes with mixed messages: Keep on for easy pulling? Take off for easier access?

Just as Mingyu finds delicious purchase on Wonwoo’s own bottom lip, Wonwoo presses his thumb against the junction of Mingyu’s jaw to separate.

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Wonwoo says between heavy breaths, lips bitten to a wet, raspberry stain, looking ravished and kissed out of his mind.

Mingyu had done that. Wonwoo had done that to himself. Fuck, Mingyu has never wanted to wax poetic so desperately about anything else in his life.

“It hasn't been long since we, uh, started this,” Wonwoo says, suddenly hesitant, “So I don't want to force you into something you might not, um, feel comfortable doing? Just yet? Because it’s taken us some time to get here and, while I do want to do it at some point, I don’t want to ruin anything. I’m totally okay with going at your pace.”

Something warm and hungry lodges at the base of Mingyu’s throat. It trickles into his stomach like a swallowed, pulsing ember.

“Knowing me,” Mingyu starts, almost panting, “If we go at my pace, we’ll either be sixty by the time I see you remotely undressed or we’ll have shat on the entire Bible. There is no in-between.”

Mingyu presses his lips to Wonwoo’s. The feeling is like remembering the ground beneath his feet.

“I want _you_ to set the pace,” he says.

“Mingyu—”

“Do you want to do it?”

“Of course, but—”

The way Mingyu snatches Wonwoo’s wrist stops Wonwoo cold, except Wonwoo’s breathing turns just a bit warmer. Interesting. Mingyu takes note of that.

For now, Wonwoo’s hand is forced to migrate from its home on Mingyu’s shoulder to the strained space beneath Mingyu’s belt buckle. They both gasp for different reasons.

“It still annoys me that you have so much experience,” Mingyu grits out, breaths so humid he thinks he sees rain clouds, “But it makes me more excited to think that you can teach me what I’ve been sorely missing out on.”

Wonwoo stares back, expression lines still woven with hesitance.

Mingyu, as it turns out, is not above begging.

“Please,” he whispers, voice cracking imperceptibly. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

Wonwoo forces in, and out, a single breath.

Then, with one more utterance—“Me, too”—he yields to the provocation and pulls sharply with his other hand for an open-mouthed kiss.

Surely, it’s illegal just how easily Wonwoo’s mouth seems to work Mingyu’s apart. His lips are as plush and velvet-soft as they look, as overtly in control and covertly aggressive as the person now holding Mingyu against the opposite wall.

His veins are full of a simmering, liquid fire. A spark pops with every little noise Wonwoo makes because Mingyu might have discovered how sensitive Wonwoo’s spine is and is now immediately taking advantage of how much real estate a spine can offer. Mingyu can’t tell whether Wonwoo’s hand is still where Mingyu placed it, but the luscious pressure there and the undulating heat hasn’t stopped and honestly that’s all Mingyu gives a damn about right now.

With willpower the strength of Atlas himself, Mingyu pulls back a little. Dizzy, he recognizes Wonwoo’s thigh between his legs.

“Bedroom?” he suggests, barely suppressing a keening sound when Wonwoo adjusts himself a little too expertly. “Don’t want any passing ahjummas in the hall to grill you for giving in to the homosexual agenda. Can’t blame you, though. It’s a pretty convincing agenda.”

“I can still appreciate some tasteful side boob.”

“I can give you full boob.”

“You said it, buddy, not me.”

Mingyu wiggles out of Wonwoo’s various states of bodily attachment so he can flick at the buttons of his own shirt. As buttons are, the endeavor isn’t efficient—not that Mingyu ever intends it to be.

Slowly, the shirt splits like it’s being cut open. Wonwoo’s eyes follow. Mingyu makes sure that they do. And, once the last button at the collar unfastens, the loose fit of Mingyu’s shirt nearly falls off in a rippling cascade of shiny, cream-colored cloth. Half-on, half-off, stark against his sun-soaked skin—the sight seems to wrench a lip-lick out of Wonwoo like he never had a chance.

“Well,” Wonwoo says, arms akimbo. “Fuck.”

His casual tone of arousal would be funnier if Mingyu wasn’t so furiously turned on by comparison.

“Yes, please,” is Mingyu’s only verbal response as he grasps at Wonwoo’s hand and drags him away. Mingyu is the type of person to lose all sense of directionality in a pawn shop raid twice in one month, and yet he can still remember the way to Wonwoo’s bedroom as if his life depended on it. Which, incidentally, it does right now.

Seriously, if Mingyu doesn’t get his dick touched—and if he doesn’t get to touch a dick that isn’t his and is hopefully Wonwoo’s—he might actually die tonight.

When the bedroom door clicks shut, the first thing Wonwoo says is, “Have you done this before?”

Mingyu plants himself on the edge of Wonwoo’s made bed. How aggravatingly neat.

“I recognize that virginity is a social construct perpetuated for the sake of shaming women, and also men, for their sexual experiences or lack thereof, especially at adult age,” Wonwoo zips on, “But I’m serious about not wanting to go too fast. And not messing things up. Between us.”

He reaches over to trace his fingertips across Mingyu’s cheek. It’s so kind, so gentle, that Mingyu melts at the touch.

“We have the rest of the semester and another year before potential geographical displacement,” Wonwoo says. “We have time.”

Oh. That’s right.

It takes Mingyu a second, but he comes to realize that Wonwoo distantly mentioned something about sticking around a bit longer—something about getting a master’s, something about running further into student debt but it’s fine since computer science majors are two _beep beep boop_s away from six figures anyway—and that, maybe, they really do have time.

Mingyu places his hand over Wonwoo’s, the one at his cheek.

“I’ve done some stuff,” Mingyu affirms, face hot, “Back in high school, well, because, you know—”

“Hormones?”

“Hormones.” Mingyu sneaks his fingers through the spaces between Wonwoo’s. He shakes their intertwined fingers a little, maybe to remind himself that this is all happening. “I’m not unfamiliar with—with _this_. But, between high school and enlistment and, uh, you,” his face must be a nightlight right now, “I haven’t had too many opportunities to, um, hone the craft. I guess.”

Wonwoo snorts. “It’s not something you just practice and then slap on a resume.”

“That would be an inappropriate thing to put on a resume. Unless, like, that’s what you do for sex work. Never mind, that sounded dumb. And ignorant. I don’t know.”

Mingyu wrinkles his nose at his own unsexy blabber. Wonwoo pinches the bridge, chuckling.

“We can do the green light-red light system,” Mingyu offers, “If it makes you feel better.”

“That would make me feel better, yes,” Wonwoo says. “But I want tonight to be about you.”

He unlaces their fingers so he can better settle onto the relaxed spread of Mingyu’s lap. The way Wonwoo moves is with a feline sort of grace, languid and certain with an easy balance across the startled rigidity of his new chair. Something frustrated rises in Mingyu’s chest.

“Flattering as that is,” Mingyu says with affectionate effort, “I want you to have fun, too.”

“As long as you’re having fun, I’ll have fun,” Wonwoo counters. “Are you having fun?”

“I might pass out at this rate.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Want me to lead tonight?”

“It’s really hot when you say that.”

“And you’re hot all the time. Now please take my shirt off.”

“With pleasure.”

Mingyu easily slips out of his own shirt, tossing it to god knows where, before almost ripping Wonwoo out of his starchier, dressier, fussier top.

Everything below the collarbone, Mingyu notices, has hardly been seen by the sun. But him? He gets to see it. He gets to _touch _it. Every part of Mingyu’s body pulses like a car piston, heated and pre-programmed to just _go_ at the expanse of skin before him.

Just as Mingyu is about press his entire face into the slopes of Wonwoo’s sternum—

“It’s not,” Wonwoo starts. Mingyu halts, noticing the bloom of a rose tinge in front of him. “I’m not exactly, um, built or anything, but, like—”

Before conscience kicks in to ruin the fun, Mingyu thinks _screw it _and _licks_, broad and wet, across that damn sternum like it’s the best strip of candy in the damn universe because—what the fuck—Wonwoo isn’t allowed talk down on himself like that, in the middle of his neatly-made bed, in the arms of the one person (Mingyu) who has too few fingers and toes to count how many wet dreams he (Mingyu) has had of this very moment. Imagination is like a rice paper silhouette compared to this.

“I would instantly bust a nut if you stepped on me and called me inadequate,” Mingyu’s huffs near the spit-slick at Wonwoo’s chest; the sudden cold makes Wonwoo shiver. “It’s at this point where _I_ need to tell _you_ to shut the fuck up and kiss me or else I will narrate, in brutally excessive detail, all my left-handed escapades at the thought of you in one of my hoodies and nothing else.”

Rosy coloring turns into something more stoplight red, so Mingyu steels himself against acting out his stupid, libido-soaked thoughts.

Wonwoo’s swallow is audible. Mingyu wants to mouth at his Adam’s apple.

“Next time,” is all Wonwoo gets out before he kisses Mingyu as deeply as he can muster, all the while pressing his hips down just a little too hard.

It seems like instinct at first—and then he does it again, and again, and again.

Mingyu gasps as if air is being forcibly pried from his chest. He grips onto Wonwoo’s shoulder blades like they’re his lifeline, kisses in in _in_to Wonwoo’s mouth because that seems to make Wonwoo noisier, taste sweeter—seems to make him move even faster, or more forceful, or both. Fuck, it’s definitely both.

Mingyu jerks up in barely-controlled reflex, startling all two parties involved with a terrible, overwhelming rush of heat. Mingyu can feel it down there, _everywhere, _crawling across his backside to his neck, to his cheeks, to his entire skull. It settles at the back of his head like a sparkler at the peak of its light show, right where Wonwoo is gripping onto his roots and pulling Mingyu open as easily as a latched, hand-me-down jewelry box.

“Hyung.” The formality tumbles out thoughtlessly. Mingyu’s eyes are heavy and half-closed, barely registering anything else but the way they’re entangled in each other like this. “Hyung, _hyung—”_

“Yeah?” Wonwoo says softly against the slack of Mingyu’s open mouth. “What do you want, baby?”

Ah, fuck.

Mingyu definitely keens this time, careless and louder than he’d care to admit. His muscles are screaming for him to just throw Wonwoo down onto the bed and get a move on—and Mingyu _could_ do that, with incredible ease and against no resistance, too, given how much Wonwoo seems to fixate on their difference in strength. Mingyu’s gym photos are some of Wonwoo’s favorites. It’s no secret.

This is one of many more “next time”s lined up for later (thank god for that). But, tonight, Wonwoo promised he’d lead, and Mingyu is sure as hell going to be led.

Wonwoo blinks, suddenly looking small. “Ah, was that not okay? I’m sorry, I, I won’t, um—”

It seems like all this lust-drunk thinking has turned an oft-loud Mingyu quiet. Which is, understandably, concerning.

Breath run ragged, Mingyu takes his teeth to Wonwoo’s earlobe. He revels in Wonwoo’s high gasp before hissing out, “That was more than okay. Call me that again. Fuck, call me that forever.”

The tendons in Wonwoo’s neck tense.

God, when Wonwoo pulls away to look at Mingyu, the way he just smiles down at Mingyu like that—like Mingyu is the only person he’s ever seen and touched and loved in his life—chokes out the most emotional, wanton sob that has ever left Mingyu’s mouth.

“Then,” thank the lord for monolid culture because Wonwoo was definitely born for bedroom eyes, “Can you get on your back for me, baby?”

Hell yeah, he can.

Mingyu can feel his arm muscles tighten as he lifts Wonwoo off of his lap—“Christ,” Wonwoo may or may not mutter—so he can scoot further into the bed until his entire body lay against the rumpling sheets. After grabbing a pillow for his neck, Mingyu returns his attention to what’s in front of him—and nearly yells something incredibly, profoundly inappropriate.

Wonwoo, now stripped of his slacks, has somehow found Mingyu’s shirt in the sea of darkness. He even went so far as to do the buttons, but only halfway up so his chest is still bare and the cloth just drapes off his left shoulder. Oh, and he’s now conveniently positioned at the very accommodating gap between Mingyu’s legs.

“Not a hoodie,” Wonwoo comments with devastatingly seductive indifference, “But I guess this works, too.”

His fingertips barely peek past the edges of the sleeves. Mingyu well and truly might die tonight and Wonwoo surely knows it.

“Does it look good on me?”

“You look good in anything.”

“Including you?”

Mingyu chokes. “Where’d you get that from? A PornHub ad?”

Wonwoo coughs, suddenly embarrassed again. “_That,”_ he says, “is my not-so-subtle question about whether you’re down for the full home run tonight or if third base is the limit. Or second base. That’s cool, too.”

“We’re kind of past second base already.”

“This isn’t actual baseball, you dingus. Running back is okay and a fully viable option.”

Mingyu can’t help but chuckle. Seeing Wonwoo flustered and worried seems so out of character yet so in character at the same time. Mingyu loves knowing that he’s the cause of it.

“Third base is good,” Mingyu says, words probably as glazed as his eyes. He makes grabby hands for Wonwoo, who obliges and crawls over. “Third base is great.”

“So are you,” Wonwoo murmurs before pressing their lips together—more for reassurance than enthusiasm at this point. “I’m going to take your pants off now. Is that okay?”

Mingyu nods. Hell, he’ll nod at anything Wonwoo asks of him right now. Get down on his knees? Sure. Run to the nearest Seven Eleven for aftercare snacks? You bet. Straight up rob a bank? No problemo.

Mingyu hears the clasp of his pants slide apart. The metal teeth of his zipper are undone, agonizingly, at the muffled sound of clinking metal. Right now, the only thing he can see are the ebbs of galaxy behind his eyelids, outline tinged in red and warmth from the low light of the side table lamp he’s facing. Mingyu’s eyes are shut, his lips are pressed together, but his attempts at keeping himself in check just make the sensory overload of Wonwoo’s actions magnified tenfold.

He can sense every inch of tight denim slide across the length his legs—fuck how long they are. Wonwoo’s just being cruel now.

When the cold air finally hits, a shiver scuttles across Mingyu’s skin like a toss of gravel.

“Green light?” Wonwoo asks.

“Yeah,” Mingyu sighs. “Now hurry up and get over here.”

“Soon.”

“Soon better mean now.”

“You’re a lot pushier than I expected.”

Mingyu opens his eyes just so he can kick Wonwoo almost off the bed.

“Okay, okay, geez,” Wonwoo chuckles, hands up in defense, still irritatingly at least an arm’s length away from a long overdue make-out session. “I was just pausing to admire the view.”

“Oh my god, _stop_,” Mingyu groans, throwing an arm over his face. “When did you get so greasy? Are you even the same person? Did your exes get heart diseases because you’re such a grease pile in bed?”

“Good thing you’re a health nut, then,” Wonwoo provides far too easily than he deserves. “And no, I suppose I was usually pretty quiet.”

Oh. Huh.

Mingyu physically pauses. Wonwoo sees this and does the same.

“You weren’t like this with Seungcheol?” Mingyu asks. “Did you do it with him?”

Wonwoo’s jaw actually, truly drops. His face reads entirely of, _Are you really, seriously asking me about my sex life with someone else right now? In _my_ bed? While you’re ninety percent naked and probably—definitely—hard?_ Mingyu would be more embarrassed if the sheer curiosity wasn’t about to burn a hole in his chest.

And Wonwoo recognizes this, perhaps. “Curiosity” is an interesting veil for other things like “retired envy” or “I’m not just another one-night stand, right?” Wonwoo closes his mouth. Something in his brow relaxes, even if his shoulders don’t.

He slips away, off the bed and to the nightstand to open a drawer for The Necessities—you know, just in case.

“We…did,” Wonwoo says slowly.

“Was it good?”

“I don’t know how to answer that question.”

“With a yes or no? I promise I won’t judge. He’s a good guy. I like him.”

Wonwoo scrubs a palm against his jaw. “I mean, I _guess_ I enjoyed it. It’s not like either of us didn’t know what we were doing,” he says. “But thinking about him doesn’t really help with the mood, you know.”

“Right. Sorry. I just,” Mingyu swallows, looks away as his face becomes a stovetop, “I want to learn more about you, about what you like. We haven’t really talked about this stuff, and I want to be better, I want to be—”

There’s a stopper in his throat in the shape of a breath. He can feel that swallowed ember from before slither out of his stomach and into his cheeks like a flush of fire.

“I want to be good,” Mingyu finishes. “For you.”

The stress lines in Wonwoo’s shoulders soften immediately. He looks like he wants to apologize for something—anything—and Mingyu can’t begin to imagine what for.

Wonwoo settles next to Mingyu, rests his back against the headboard and cards his fingers through Mingyu’s hair. Mingyu blinks up at him a few times through the bangs now swept out of the way. Wonwoo lets out a soft, whispered, “cute_.” _Mingyu kisses his palm in response.

“You’re already good. Great, even,” Wonwoo says. “You’ll learn as you go, the same way I will—”

“But I—”

“Trust me, learning is part of the fun. More than the actual ‘rubbing things together’ and ‘sticking things into other things’ part, in my opinion.”

Mingyu wrinkles his nose. “Fine, just, one more question? Or, well, one question and a follow-up.”

“That’s two questions, but fine, make ‘em count.”

“Why did you like Seungcheol? And why did you break up?”

Where Mingyu is all deceivingly smooth and toned-out slopes, Wonwoo is all angular and sharp points that belie the softness beneath. One side of him is the color of the lamp light, edges bathed in yellow-white not unlike the sun. The other side is colored in the evening sky, almost an inky purple flashing with reds and greens, reminding Mingyu that there’s still a world outside the window.

“When I first confessed to him, I thought I really did like him,” Wonwoo says quietly. “Chalk it up to some clean slate confidence of the new school year. He was open and friendly, had a genuine respect for everyone he worked with, was pretty damn handsome when he didn’t even try. And when he did? God, everyone was a goner. Including me.”

“I can imagine.”

“But he also liked being in control. He had a hard time letting go of that sometimes, in and out of private spaces. We weren’t as compatible as we thought we’d be. And. Well.”

Mingyu sits up next to him, at which Wonwoo’s cheek quickly finds solace on Mingyu’s exposed shoulder. The contact is warm, radiating out like a hot pack you’d share with another person’s hand in winter jacket pockets.

“I think, in my head,” Wonwoo says. “He was like a fake version of you.”

Mingyu doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Loud and goofy, athletic, has a propensity for taking care of others even when they don’t ask for it. And he listened, when it suited him.”

“And when it didn’t?”

“We’d break up.”

“Ah.”

“I liked him. Maybe I loved him,” Wonwoo says pensively. “But it was wrong of me to see him as a person he wasn’t. It was the same for him with me, almost. We’re on good terms now.”

“I’m glad you guys are.” And Mingyu means it—really.

Wonwoo seems fixated on playing with their collective fingers. Mingyu’s are calloused, squared off, ornamented with darkly-tinted veins and odd patches of discoloration. Wonwoo’s are softer, round nails blunted from a fresh trim, lengths just a tad shorter by comparison. There’s a dangerous desire trickling in from nowhere. In a ludicrous mental flash, Mingyu wonders if the pale quartz of Wonwoo’s nails, or his fingers entirely, taste as good as they look.

“How about now?” Mingyu asks evenly, but his breathing is noticeably more forced. “Is the real version of me better?”

“Is one of your turn-ons playing Twenty Questions in bed? That’s not very sexy of you.”

“If that means learning more about you, then consider me absolutely aching right now.”

“And you say I’m the greasy one.”

“I’m _sappy_. Someone did call me a tree man.”

There’s a muffled _oh my god, you’re so weird I hate you_ muttered into Mingyu’s collarbone. Somehow they’ve come (well, not yet) from nearly ripping at each other’s garments to The Consent Talk to confessing previous relationship stories and Mingyu’s god-tier humor, clearly. And it’s all so much more…enjoyable. Nicer, even, than Mingyu expected, though perhaps his awkward high school experiences were only worth a rock’s toss from far-fetched extrapolations.

Mingyu expected there to be bumps, which they’ve certainly had a fair share of for a hell of a long time. This is still one of them—navigating each other’s bodies, figuring out what intimacy looks and feels and tastes like. Seeing each other like this. Mingyu thinks his heart is about to burst all over again.

Wonwoo interrupts any thoughts of bursting (…well, not completely) with a single clap.

“Time to get back to business,” he announces. “Where were we again? Before you started asking me about another man who may or not fit your fancy, now that I think about it.”

“Me thinking sunbae’s a good guy means just as much as the fact that I think Pepsi’s a good soda,” Mingyu points out. “Doesn’t mean I wanna fuck a soda can.”

“Great, I’m so glad that we’ve established that. Can I take your underwear off now?”

“By all means.”

“Mouth or hands?”

Mingyu chokes. “What—how—”

“Mouth then,” Wonwoo says with pleased decisiveness. “You can close your eyes if you want.”

Yeah, Mingyu does his best to not fucking do that.

But the endeavor becomes increasingly difficult with every kiss Wonwoo trails down the center of Mingyu’s body. At every lick, every peck, a new wetness fills the crevices and scars carved into Mingyu’s abdomen. It’s devastating. Satisfaction grows Wonwoo’s lips into an infuriating smile at the wobble of Mingyu’s very, very flawed attempts at breath control.

There’s this spatter of sun freckles at the edges of Mingyu’s waist, the narrowness of which absorbs so much of Wonwoo’s attention that he seems to almost forget his objective entirely. He licks his lips again. Mingyu bottles a scream in his throat.

“You good over there?” Wonwoo tosses out conversationally.

“So good, the absolute goodest,” Mingyu grits through his teeth. “How about you—”

Hot air shoots through Mingyu’s nose when the elastic band of his briefs snaps against his hipbone.

“Whoops,” Wonwoo doesn’t apologize. “Slipped out of my teeth.”

“You are definitely trying to kill me.”

“I neither confirm nor deny.”

Before Mingyu can fire out another frustrated retort, Wonwoo’s hands have splayed at his thighs, gripping tight, forcing them still so he can properly bite into the hem of Mingyu’s underwear. Oh, what a sight it is to behold.

The act itself is pretty astounding. In fact, Mingyu probably would’ve come already if the nerves weren’t making him blink half his vision away. But simply knowing that there’s a reverence in Wonwoo’s eyes, that there’s a care with which he commits to slowly and skillfully peeling away at the last physical barrier on Mingyu’s body, nearly does him in.

When it’s off, Mingyu finally realizes just how far away but really_ really _close Wonwoo is.

“Green light?”

Mingyu, speechless, nods an affirmation.

Then, the dreaded echo of a question:

“Hands or mouth?”

Mingyu bites down on his lip. He can feel a bead of sweat trickle down the side of his temple and drain into the pillowcase below. The worst part is that he thinks he sees Wonwoo’s gaze follow it, rapt.

“Hand,” Mingyu decides.

Wonwoo raises his brows into a command of sorts, like he’s expecting more of a response than that. And, damn it, there _is_ more.

“Because—because I want you to, um,” each syllable turns more strained and quiet than the last, “I want you to talk to me. While you do it.”

_And you can’t do that when your mouth is full_, Mingyu would’ve added, smug and proud of himself for being so risqué and clever if Wonwoo’s fingers weren’t so quick to shut him up.

Wonwoo’s gaze is both burdensome and attentive, full of obvious desire tethered by practiced self-control. His pupils have blown his irises almost completely black, most of which is already shielded by the natural narrowness of his eyes so they look fully dark, wicked, and hungry.

Before Mingyu can register it, Wonwoo has already moved up the bed, right up against Mingyu’s ear.

“How’s that feel, baby?” Lips brush at the ear’s curve, a thumb runs across—_fuck_. “Does this feel good? Do you feel good?”

“Yeah, yeah, so good, there, th—”

Mingyu jolts, whining and nosing into the pillow.

“Here? Mm, I like that, too. So what about…”

“Ah! Ah, hyung, that’s too_—”_

“Actually, I think this might be better.”

“Hyung, _hyung, _I,” is the extent of Mingyu’s answer before he arches into another helpless moan.

There’s a flick here, a press there, a lazy scrape of a nail on a vein and this all gets Mingyu to sound off in ways he’s never done before. He’d like to think he knows his favorite places the best—and it’s honestly ridiculous just how easily Wonwoo finds them—but it’s the fact that _Wonwoo_ is doing this that makes Mingyu’s blood boil until there’s nothing left for his heart to pump.

Mingyu’s hands stop being deadweights and search for Wonwoo’s face, which Wonwoo is more than happy to offer when kisses are the reward. Mingyu kisses and kisses and _kisses_ into him, licks into Wonwoo’s mouth, distraught and all over the place because kisses aren’t the distraction Mingyu thought they’d be. The extra intimate contact only intensifies just how quickly Wonwoo is drinking up every pretty sound coming out of Mingyu’s mouth.

“I can’t tell you enough,” Wonwoo starts, breathing labored, in a rare lapse of separation, “About how glad I am that you didn’t get braces back when we were kids.”

“If this is your idea of dirty talk—”

“Because your smile, your teeth, the way you smile with your teeth when you laugh—they all remind me of just how much seeing you happy makes me happy. Also, who gave you the right to be so fucking handsome?”

A full-body shiver runs a marathon through Mingyu’s limbs.

“You’re so—just, god, _look at you_—you’re beautiful in a way people shouldn’t be but you _are_ and I wonder all the time if you’re just in my imagination. You’re already stupid good-looking on a day-to-day basis and the fact that that gets a million times worse when you wake up is so absolutely unfair and you better be beside me, on a bed, the next time I see it.”

Wonwoo says it almost snappily, too, which makes Mingyu laugh and then whimper because of the expert twist Wonwoo puts into his wrist.

“And I love the way you love people,” Wonwoo murmurs in a strange mixture of soft awe and seething arousal. “You love people for who they are and not their history, for what they do and not who. You accept so many parts of people without question because you only care about whether they have good hearts and maybe good hair but I think that’s a more recent thing—”

“Who’s the one rambling now?” Mingyu fights back weakly, mind so hazy with feelings and touches and Wonwoo that it’s a miracle he could get out anything remotely coherent.

“It’s all your fault,” Wonwoo whispers in an almost-kiss. “You’ve ruined me. The sounds you make, how you’re not shy about them, that you call me for me over and over again even though I’m right here. I love that you can carry me around like I’m nothing, that you can slam me against this bed but chose not to tonight because you trust me enough to take the lead. I thought I was ruined before, but, _god_, I am really and truly ruined now, all because of you. You better take responsibility.”

Mingyu’s entire body is burning now, pulsing and twitching and trembling, arrhythmically going tense and relaxed before tensing up again when Wonwoo’s thumb starts circling a particularly sensitive place. Mingyu’s abdomen clenches, as if trying to hide the liquid ache that has been building there since god knows when. Even when drunk on this pleasure, Mingyu can tell that he’s on the brink of spilling.

“Kiss me,” Mingyu says, orders, _pleads_ all watery and uneven because everything is so painful to hold in, “Kiss me, please, hyung_, _I’m gonna_—”_

“Yeah, yeah, c’mon baby, it’s okay, I’ve got you—”

When their lips meet once more, Mingyu’s hips suddenly convulse, unbidden.

In this moment, Mingyu is all skin and muscles, shuddering and buckling into himself at the surge of hot, prickling electricity throughout his body. Wonwoo’s fingers tighten just so, just hard enough to wring out as much as he can—including a deliciously wet, loose gasp out of Mingyu.

As the clench of heat and pleasure ebb away, as Mingyu’s sated mind finally begins to reclaim its scattered bearings, Mingyu vaguely registers that Wonwoo had departed for and returned from the bathroom. A damp towel is in his hand.

“You,” Mingyu slurs out, reaches out, “You, also.”

Wonwoo pushes the sweat-stuck hair out of Mingyu’s eyes. Maybe it’s out of care. Maybe it’s so he can wipe down Mingyu’s face with the cooling roughness of the towel.

“I said tonight would be about you. You had fun, so I had fun.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m fine,” Wonwoo says. “I promise.”

Emboldened by the delay of rational thought, Mingyu makes a grab for the stark bulge at Wonwoo’s briefs. Wonwoo yelps and drops the cloth.

“You really need to stop thinking that you have to limit your enjoyment for other people’s sakes,” Mingyu scolds through the salivation in his mouth, “Or that you have to be the one to give instead of the other way around.”

“Mingyu—”

“Ask me to do things. _Tell_ me to do things,” then, as an afterthought that seemed to work well enough earlier: “Please.”

Wonwoo chews at his bottom lip, eyes flitting back and forth between Mingyu and an unspecified point behind him.

Mingyu squeezes in near-sober impatience. Wonwoo grunts in aroused annoyance.

“So,” he starts.

Mingyu perks. “Yeah?”

“How do you feel about leashes?”

“...what.”

“Oh my god, don’t look at me like that, I was just kidding. Honest.”

“No, wait, tell me more—”

Mingyu can’t actually tell if either of them are joking, but the easygoing route of their conversation trails them both to Wonwoo’s shower.

Mingyu does a great job of listening to Wonwoo about every which, where, and why he likes getting sucked. Mingyu isn’t amazing by any means (“What was that about honing the craft again?” “Please never quote me on that, hyung.”) But Mingyu can, at least, give himself a pat on the back for making Wonwoo come just from looking up at him, eyelashes batting, with a lovingly occupied mouth.

“You have edible things in this place, right?” Mingyu asks as he, absolutely butt-naked in Wonwoo’s bedroom, sorts through Wonwoo’s clothes for something he can wear to sleep. “You know, for breakfast.”

Wonwoo yawns, already half-tucked into his bed and prepped for passing out. “I’m guessing we’re not in the mood right now to talk about eating things for breakfast besides food.”

“So I’m taking that as a no.”

“Depends on what you consider proper nutrition.”

Mingyu finally finds some joggers that reach his ankles, so he throws them on before throwing himself onto the bed, horizontally across Wonwoo’s torso.

“Holy shit, you’re so heavy,” Wonwoo groans, potentially in actual pain. “Get off, you punk, you’re cutting off my general circulation.”

Mingyu rolls around in revenge. “Are you telling me I’m fat?”

“Well,” then Wonwoo starts patting Mingyu’s ass.

“Tomorrow,” Mingyu says, eyes dampening from the fatigue just now hitting him. “After actual sustenance. I’ll head to the convenience store nearby and make us something.”

“Want me to go with you?” Wonwoo asks. “Talk to some pigeons and impress a nearby stranger who might think I’m a bird-whisperer and then end up crushing on me before an impossible chance meet-up many years later?”

“You make it sound like it’s never happened before,” Mingyu muses.

He finally relents and crawls over to his designated side of the bed. There was some negotiation of the Big Spoon, Little Spoon business in the bathroom earlier (“Spoons, huh, hyung? It all comes full circle.” “Don’t make me think about deadlines during aftercare.”) They ended up gawi-bawi-bo’ing in the end with Mingyu winning out as Big Spoon for the night.

But it doesn’t even matter because Wonwoo turns around, breaking spooning protocol entirely, just so he can press the final kiss of the night onto Mingyu’s lips. He misses just a bit since it’s so dark, but Mingyu still smiles into it knowing that Wonwoo will get it right the next morning. Or not. That’s okay, too.

“Every time I think about it, the story sounds more and more ridiculous in my head,” Wonwoo murmurs, barely awake now. “I forget that it’s real sometimes.”

“I understand,” and Mingyu does. “I guess we’ll just have to keep reminding each other that it’s real.”

And they do.

—for a solid two weeks on Mingyu’s part before Minghao stuffs a house slipper into Mingyu’s mouth and nearly chokes him to death because the <strike>Boy Problem</strike> Basically Any Fucking Gushing About Wonwoo Ban was reinstated ages ago and Mingyu violated it on at least twenty separate accounts.

Wonwoo did get a little mad that his boyfriend was almost asphyxiated to death by questionable friendship, but he ends up buying Minghao new house slippers anyway. 

“Are you…doing what I think you’re doing?”

“Is it,” Mingyu says, neurons trying to rewire themselves after realizing just how dumb this probably looks. “Is it bad? Maybe I should of just, um.”

“No, no, this is, I’m,” Wonwoo, oddly enough, struggles for words.

Mingyu gets that it’s graduation day and that Wonwoo is probably running purely on adrenaline and caffeine and nerves at this point, but still. It’s strange.

Wonwoo glances down at the cheap, familiar-but-not bouquet of flowers in his hands. Mingyu handed them to him just a few minutes ago, after Wonwoo slipped away from his family in the throng of “oh shit, we’re adults now” mayhem.

Jihoon already departed for an early dinner with his parents because “we’re gonna get piss-drunk tomorrow anyway. Peace out, losers.” A very large Jun’s very tiny grandparents surprised him with their first trip outside the Chinese countryside; suffice to say, he’s bawling. And, from a indeterminable distance, Soonyoung is screaming something that came from and should definitely stay on the Internet. Typical graduation shenanigans, Mingyu supposes.

And then there’s Wonwoo, who’s here and with a gorgeous, rare acceptance of surprise on his face, even when the sweat from his graduation barette is overheating his cheeks.

“Thank you, Mingyu,” Wonwoo says, in this moment, breathless.

That upward tilt of his head wasn’t there when they were kids, nor was the cap or the gown or the probably now sweat-stained formal wear on both their bodies. But the astonishment in Wonwoo’s eyes, the high shine of his sheepish grin, the way he says Mingyu’s name as if it was dipped in sugar cane syrup and mulled wine—like it’s the one thing Wonwoo can say when he’s not fully sober—it all hits Mingyu with a deluge of timeless affection.

Love, if the cheese factor is feeling bold today.

“I, uh, asked my mom to bring me something from home,” Mingyu continues. He doesn’t know why he’s so bashful today, considering how many milestones they’ve reached at this point. “I never got the chance to do this with you before, so I’m hoping that we can? Today?”

“What’re you—oh.”

Mingyu, with a trembling hand, pulls out a name tag from his suit pocket.

The laminated covering is tinged amber and permanently finger-printed from age. It’s warped, too, probably from too much fiddling in growing hands and growing uncertainties from a time long behind them. Despite the age, it still bears the same color scheme as that of their middle school uniforms.

“You saved it,” Wonwoo says.

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Minseo tells me that couples exchange name tags during graduation,” Mingyu answers. “As a memento, of sorts.”

“Of sorts,” Wonwoo reflects back.

“There was never a chance that we could ever graduate together,” Mingyu says with a queasy tone that only signals oncoming babble. “And, and it was, um, I know it’s kind of dirty-looking and super old compared to yours right now, but I, you know, if we might not get another chance—”

“Mingyu,” Wonwoo says.

He wounds a little wobbly himself. Mingyu has never felt as small and as stuck in the clouds in his life as he does in this moment.

“Do you want to do it?” he asks.

Wonwoo’s eyes are shining like an entire ocean on new year’s. Something something about diving, something something else about drowning and other unhealthy rhetoric Mingyu can’t bear to say out loud because it’s another graduation day, of all days.

Wonwoo bites his lip, a ring of white surrounding where his teeth dig. Mingyu thinks about kissing it. He thinks about wearing it.

“I’m pretty sure we’re too old for this,” Wonwoo says despite the fact that he makes quick work of the pin of his own name tag. “We aren’t kids anymore.”

“I know,” Mingyu says. “But, then again, we still have a lot to catch up on.”

“I think we’re making good progress.”

“I think so, too.”

In lieu of smacking lips with Mingyu in front of an entire crowd of people (don’t want a redacted diploma, now), Wonwoo brings Mingyu’s name tag to his lips instead. He smiles as he does it, eyes curling upwards in what Mingyu has come to recognize as a really special kind of fondness. There’s a tried and true dampness to those upward curls—a vulnerability that means more to Mingyu than what a private bedroom space could ever hope to offer.

“I’m really happy that I waited,” Wonwoo confesses. He’s finally in tears.

“Me, too,” Mingyu says like it’s an unsaid promise, bringing Wonwoo and his beautiful tears into a warm embrace.

In this moment, Mingyu feels so incredibly, stupidly happy. Maybe they both do.

“Thank you for waiting for me.”

In the upcoming fall:

“Shit shit _shit_—”

Wonwoo is fast-walking as quickly as his genetically skinny legs can handle. Of course, he doesn’t break his now five-year streak of arriving hysterically late for the first meeting. Not that he’s particularly interested in arriving on time, especially since he’s technically not in undergrad anymore. He’s seen this introduction so many times that the copied and pasted presentation slides are burned into his eyelids.

When do the Comic Sans and Google emojis become unironic? When will people stop being so god damn obsessed with avocados and their admittedly smooth texture and healthy monounsaturated fats? The madness never ends, Wonwoo knows, but he thinks he should at least be more professional about it.

Luckily, it’s at this point that the projector is off so Wonwoo isn’t interrupting any fear mongering. It seems that the newcomer crowd has spread around the room for the free food and conspiracy-framed questions about why dining hall food sucks ass but no one can seem to stop eating it.

“Sorry I’m late,” Wonwoo says to Mingyu, who’s parked next to the jungle juice mocktails—which makes them just juice, actually. “How’re the freshmen?”

Mingyu’s expression is rather stale, which says a lot. “Cute, I guess? There are definitely more here this year than last year.”

With the not-so-hushed whispers of interest around them, Wonwoo can probably figure out why.

“Seems like the butler café ended up being more of a recruitment than the activities fair,” Wonwoo says as he sees a shy-looking girl trying her best to not look at Mingyu. “Too bad you’re not an upperclassmen yet. You might’ve gotten paired up with someone who’d fall in love with you. Or perhaps was already in love with you.”

Wonwoo grins at the steam coming out of Mingyu’s ears. Even now, he finds it adorable that Mingyu can still get embarrassed about all that’s happened the year prior.

“I’m perfectly happy right now,” Mingyu insists, quietly curling their pinky fingers together. Wonwoo deems that their in-season trench coats are long enough to hide the gesture, so he allows it. “I’m surprised you showed up, actually. I think Jihoon picked the right person to take over—”

“Sunbae?”

The pinky connection immediately splits. Wonwoo turns to find a familiar-looking, dumpling-like face behind them, nursing a potentially vegan cake pop and a nervous expression on his face.

“Ah, Seungkwan right?” Wonwoo says. “I remember you from the festival. You were with Hansol.”

“I, ah—yes, Hansol, me with him. That was me. I was with him. Yeah. Um.”

“Did you need something?” Wonwoo offers politely. “Or have a question?”

“I wasn’t,” Seungkwan tries, shakes his head, hardens his gaze rather adorably. “I was referring to, erm, Mingyu. Sunbae.”

Wonwoo watches Mingyu almost spurt his not-jungle juice through his nose.

“Oh my god,” Mingyu heaves in shock, “I’m a sunbae now.”

“You are,” Wonwoo says, unimpressed, though he does press a nearby napkin to the dribble on Mingyu’s chin. “I don’t suppose you could act more like one.”

“Why you gotta do me like that?”

“I’m being honest.”

“You’re being mean.”

“And I don’t even have to be drunk. Progress?”

Mingyu frowns. Wonwoo smiles back, giving a friendly pinch to Mingyu’s cheek.

Mingyu huffs and turns away from Wonwoo’s teasing to offer Seungkwan his most winning of winning smiles because, let’s face it, Seungkwan is probably the most interesting thing he’s seen all meeting.

“Yes, hi, hello,” Mingyu says. “Nice to see you again, Hansol’s friend named Seungkwan. What can I do for you on this fine day?”

“Will you go out with me?”

“Great to hear! I’m so glad that—wait.”

Mingyu pauses. Closes his mouth. Opens it again.

“I’m sorry?”

“Will you go out with me?” Seungkwan repeats with so much gusto that even Wonwoo is colored impressed. “You know, like on a date?”

“I m-mean,” Mingyu looks like he’s trying not to dissociate from his physical form.“I, uh, we barely even know each other, I’m not sure if—”

“You were just so cool last semester, during the festival,” Seungkwan blurts out, face incredibly hot but he looks so sincere and determined that he makes Mingyu look like the amateur here. “You stood up to those upperclassmen even though you were just a freshman and, and—you were so _nice _to me even after what they’d said, and I just—I didn’t know people our age could act like that.”

Ah, the cinematic parallels shouldn’t be so surprising. Wonwoo actually almost laughs.

There’s an occasional shuffle of feet and a single, awkward cough. No one says anything for a while, just ogling on in quiet astonishment, or more accurately in anticipation, for the next word spoken.

Mingyu’s train of thought seems to be having quite the breakdown with severe delays in transporting wise judgment. Not that there was much of that, really, but Mingyu had been swearing he’s been getting better.

Wonwoo crosses his arms over his chest, more than happy to see this ride out in front of him. Free entertainment _and_ free food? This is what you call a bargain.

“Well?” Wonwoo suddenly prompts, doing a pretty fantastic job of hiding his amusement. “Are you going to tell him?”

Mingyu startles. His eyes are bugged out and a little on the fritz, like a deer on a midnight highway suddenly realizing what mortality means. Maybe it was a little cruel of Wonwoo to extend such an ambiguous question. What can Wonwoo say? Watching Mingyu squirm—and being the cause of it—never gets old.

“Ah, are you,” Seungkwan shrinks a little, “Are you dating someone already?”

A collective gasp reverberates around the clubroom. Mingyu has long been a victim of dating rumor bets, and the Spoon Crew had quickly taken to the gambling arena and drunk barbecue nights for the delicious, hypothetical gossip. Wonwoo, despite his loose talkativeness under the influence, had always stayed silent then. It was impressive. Mingyu was, all over again, awed. Sober Wonwoo may be a different story.

The two of them haven’t unveiled to the public much of anything about their relationship yet; their closest friends promised to keep their mouths shut, too. After being hush-hush about it for most of last semester, the idea of telling anyone anything eventually faded into afterthought when summer rolled around, when they ended up overlapping Wonwoo’s nonexistent summer plans with Mingyu’s extensive foodie bucket list.

Mingyu looks onward for guidance, only to be met with a purposefully abstract expression. Wonwoo’s face may or may not read: _The ball’s in your court, buddy. Shoot your shot._

Mingyu does his best to convey: _You’re so unhelpful, you’re the worst_. It probably doesn’t reach (or maybe it does, hard to tell), based on the stifled snort Wonwoo makes.

Breaths are held tight. Wonwoo thinks Mingyu might crumple at how much this feels like discounted deja vu, but now on the other side of the fence.

And yet being on the other side changes absolutely nothing, it seems. Like a creature of habit, Mingyu sets down his children’s jungle juice, dusts off the invisible dust from his pants—and just straight up leaves the clubroom. He fast-walks instead of bolting out the door, so there’s that, at least.

Someone bursts into laughter (definitely not Wonwoo), which sets off a chain reaction of everyone else following suit. Poor little Seungkwan looks stuck between melting out embarrassment, looking bewildered, or feeling even more inspired to chase after his Love at First Sight because Mingyu didn’t exactly give much of an answer.

“Was that a…no?” Seungkwan asks. It takes Wonwoo a second to realize the question is directed at him.

“Well, it wasn’t a yes.” Wonwoo shrugs. “Trust me, kid, you probably won’t get too far with that guy.”

“Why not?”

“Well, from what I’ve heard, with the first real crush he ever had, it took him almost a decade to work up the nerve to do anything about it.”

“Wow, that’s a…pretty long time. How’d that turn out?”

“Well,” Wonwoo says, thoughtful. “Lets just say that they’re working on it.”

God, Mingyu is such a fool. Both of them are, really.

But Wonwoo supposes that, after all the silent heart-eyes and the not-actually-unrequited pining and the discoveries they’re still making about each other up until now, messes like this are kind of inevitable. So are the clean-ups. That’s all fine.

Some things change. Some things don’t. And, in some cases—

(“I feel so bad now. I need cuddles.”

“And we need more toilet paper, but _someone_ wouldn’t let me raid the freshman dorms. Look where that’s got us.”

_“Senpaiiiii.”_

“I swear to god, Mingyu, I will finish what Minghao started.”)

—Wonwoo hopes that they never do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is the song](https://youtu.be/8Ypnr33sEmg?t=18) I imagine playing at the credits. Also, I read somewhere that high school couples in Korea sometimes exchange their name tags during graduation in remembrance of their relationship, so of course I had to cram that in here at 4am instead of sleeping. I may or may not have a thing for graduation scenes.
> 
> AND WITH THIS, I have hit peak schmoop with a dabble in filth. Is this an extended love letter to Wonwoo in disguise? Maybe.
> 
> Thank you so so much to everyone who has taken the time and patience to read this despite the bad update schedule, trope palooza, and Feelings. It’s been an adventure and a half writing this, and I’m extremely grateful to you for being a part of it. I hope you enjoyed it. I’d love to know which parts you found most memorable (if any lol)! 😌
> 
> [feel free to chat with me on my tumblr!](https://aijee.tumblr.com)


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